


Deck the Halls

by itsalwaysyou_jw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Advent Calendar, Aging, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anniversary, Attempted Seduction, Bittersweet, Candles, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Coffee Shops, Comfort, Confessions, Crack, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dementia, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drinking, Drunk Greg Lestrade, Drunk John Watson, Drunk Sherlock Holmes, Drunkenness, Eggnog, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Gift Giving, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Holidays, Home, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, It's For a Case, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Memory Loss, Mind Palace, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Movie Night, Mutual Pining, Mycroft IS the British Government, POV Greg Lestrade, POV John Watson, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parenthood, Party, Philip Anderson Being a Dick, Pining, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Protective Mycroft, Retirement, Romantic Fluff, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are Parents, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Sherlock Texting, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Shopping, Singing, Sleepy Cuddles, Snogging, Snow, Snowball Fight, Socks, Texting, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-02 09:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 31,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16784428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/pseuds/itsalwaysyou_jw
Summary: Deck the halls with boughs of Johnlock. Alternatively, the Johnlock Advent Calendar.One Johnlock ficlet for every day leading up to Christmas. Who is ready for pining, first kisses, established Johnlock, and everything in between? This collection of stand-alone ficlets will have it all.This work is now complete.





	1. Holiday Decor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock surprises John with a fully-decorated flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was Bath and Body Works' annual candle day. I worked twelve hours there so this is a short, fluffy piece because Johnlock can always cheer me up. Off we pop!

The sight before him was so extraordinary, John could neither believe nor understand it.

“Sherlock?” he called hesitantly, his eyes unable to make sense of the overload of information that the room offered. Sherlock always said that John sees but does not observe, and at that moment, he had to agree. The flat was registering visually, but he was far too overwhelmed to take any of it in. The minute details of the ensemble were lost on him.

His friend bound into the room with a dramatic leap of motion. The smile stretched across his face was a painting of sparkles on that beautiful angular face. As so often happened when Sherlock was around, John needed to remind himself to breathe at the sight of him

“Do you like it?” Sherlock asked, excitement ringing through his voice. His arms gestured around them and John needed to take a moment to answer.

The lights were off in the flat with no starlight outside to light their surroundings. Even so, the whole place was alight with a blaze of illumination. The multi-coloured lights twinkling on the Christmas tree cast beautiful halos of hazy light. Garland entwined with white lights was hung around the walls so that the room was encaptured with a soft glow, objects illuminated with strange shadows. Other strings of light were cascading around their possessions: the fireplace was adorned with dainty light, their seats draped with another set, and the desk was holding lights around its edge.

The primary source of light, however, was not from any of these. The room was lit with what must have been hundreds of flames, each connected to the wick of different sized candle. They cast dancing shadows around the room, their heat washing over them both in fierce waves.

“I do,” John answered with a hesitant voice, his eyes remaining glued on the sight before him. “But what's with-” he gestured lamely around him, his voice trailing off.

Sherlock looked at him with wide, crestfallen eyes that lurched a pang of affection into his heart. “You don't like it.”

“No!” John rushed to oppose his deduction. “I like it, Sherlock. I do. I'm just confused. Why are there-” he trailed off once more, groping for words that were escaping him. “Why did you do this?”

Sherlock's hands were nervously playing with one another, his eyes shifting from John to the scene around them. “I thought, perhaps, you would enjoy coming home to a fully decorated flat.”

John was truly touched at the gesture. “Thank you, Sh- wait,” and his mind reeled with a realization. “What about the candles?”

“I-I told you,” Sherlock stammered, eyes avoiding John's sparkling eyes as they scrutinized him. “I decorated-”

“No,” John teased, drawing out the word dramatically. “That explains the tree, the garland, and the lights. It does not explain, however, the candles. They're not decoration, they're- scenery?”

Sherlock flushed a colour that John rarely saw on the man. His heart was racing, though he couldn't say why. Sherlock's words were hesitant and soft when he spoke, “I read that candles were a nice way to set a romantic mood.”

“A romantic mood?” John stared blankly at the man, shy and timid before him. His feet were shuffling half-mindedly, his mouth forming a tight line, his hands moving in peculiar ways, and John was reaching the conclusion slowly. The idea started as a pin-point, growing like a rolling snowball with every piece of evidence John supplied to it.

John's smile reflected the light in the room so that it surely could have been seen from space.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said with extraordinary hope.

“Yes?”

“You set a romantic scene for me.”

An impossibly long silence, the moment lasting a small eternity.

“Yes.”

John was sweeping the man into his arms before he could figure out how he had closed the space between them. His mouth pressed into the surprised detective's whose lips rapidly went soft under the pressure. John's arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock's neck, his feet propping him up on his tip-toes to embrace so ardently. In response, he felt Sherlock's musician's fingers run around the fabric of John's shirt, fingers gripping desperately at his waist.

When the world rotated for enough time to allow them the strength to break apart, Sherlock rested his forehead upon John's.

“All this time?” John uttered to the space between them

Sherlock breathed in response, “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I had to include candles in this one. It was candle day!
> 
> One down, 23 to go!  
> Find me on Tumblr, if you fancy it:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com
> 
> Tomorrow's prompt: Star


	2. Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't tall enough to place the star on top of the Christmas tree. Luckily, Sherlock can help with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt: Star

“Almost perfect,” said John, his arms extended above him as he reached to fix an ornament toward the top of the tree.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock absent-mindedly. His gaze was resting upon John's figure, eyes greedy with the desire to soak him in. “I think it's perfect already.”

John scoffed, a playful roll of his eyes directed at Sherlock. “Don't be absurd, it still needs a top.”

His mouth was suddenly dry, his eyes blinking him out of his trance. A top? What was John talking about? John didn’t need a top. Sherlock had been so focused on the man, their topic had escaped him. He knew the fact of his disassociation would disappoint John.

“Quite right,” he elected to say, feigning agreeance in the hope John wouldn't notice.

John crossed the room, bent over one of the many boxes scattered around the room, and extracted a metal star with a long cord coming from one end.

He recalled the day they got the thing, John dragging him out to the store after being outraged that Sherlock didn't own one.

“It's unimportant,” Sherlock had groaned.

“I disagree,” John simply responded with finality.

He had demanded that Sherlock put the star on that evening, insisting it was an important rite of passage. He had fallen into the job next year and the next, and now seven Christmases had passed with Sherlock placing the star on top with John beaming to his right.

As per tradition, John brought their star to Sherlock with an extended hand. He was reminded vividly of how excited John had been to get the star. He thought of how John had insisted on its importance. How he beamed when the task was done.

“No,” he said, looking at the star in John's hands. “You do it.”

A pleasant surprise passed over John's face even as he shook his head in refusal. “I couldn't. It's your thing.”

“Then perhaps it should become _our_ thing.”

John didn't respond but smiled down the piece in his hand. After a moment of contemplation, John walked gleefully over to their tree, magnificent in size and adorning a glorious array of ornaments, lights, and garland. He put the star in his right hand, used his left hand to steady himself against the wall, and stretched himself to reach the top of their unassuming tree.

Sherlock should have deduced it. Should have known the tree’s height, the width of the base, and the height of John’s maximum reaching span would not allow it.

He watched with a mix of endearment and pain as John tried once-twice-three times to stretch himself far enough to place the star on the tree. With each failed attempt, John grew more disgruntled until, on the fourth attempt, he released a string of angry curse words and very nearly threw the star on the ground.

“Damn it,” he finished, his voice brimming with anger but his face betraying his disappointment. “You need to do it.”

It was quite the challenge to refrain from the smile fighting to spread across his face. The man was so adorable at that moment, too short to complete the task he adored and too disgruntled to pull up a chair or step-ladder.

Remaining stoic, Sherlock stepped forward as though to grab the thing from John’s hands, but manoeuvred expertly once he was close enough to act upon his whim.

“Wha- Sherlock!” bellowed John in surprise as Sherlock’s hands firmly gripped John around his waist and hoisted him up several feet in the air.

He was hyper-aware of the way John’s waist felt under his fingers, the skin beneath giving way under his pressure, the muscles there tightening from surprise under layers of soft fabric. The sensation made Sherlock’s blood rush, but his voice was even when he spoke. “It’s your turn, John. Stop your fussing and put the star on top.”

It was quite fortunate that Sherlock’s face, flushed with colour, was not visible to the man now reaching one arm clumsily toward the top of the tree. John placed the star on the tree at a strange angle, his hand coming down to slap at Sherlock’s hands.

“Alright, put me down,” he said shakily and Sherlock granted the request. When John’s feet were firmly planted on the ground once more, the two men were frozen in a tense silence, their eyes flinting from one another to randomized items around them.

After several long seconds, John said softly, “It’s crooked.”

“Mmm,” he replied, noting mentally how long it had until gravity won and the thing toppled off the tree altogether.

John cleared his throat, his feet shuffling beneath him. “I could… fix it,” he offered casually, as though he were commenting on the weather.

His eyes shot up, scrutinizing John for signs he was misunderstanding the words.

“You- Do you want to fix it?” “It would look better.” John’s hand rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes dancing.

This time with a gentler touch, a more cautious motion, Sherlock placed his hands upon John’s waist. He made sure to apply enough pressure to securely lift him up once more, the body beneath his fingers much less tense this time as he adjusted the star into an upright position.

Was it a fact or was it Sherlock’s own desire to believe it that made him deduce that John spent more time than necessary on the task?

“Alright,” John muttered and Sherlock placed him down gently back on the floor. He withdrew his hands, relishing how it felt to drag his fingers along the outline of his waist. “Thanks,” he said to the wall.

“Don’t mention it,” Sherlock responded with a soft passion he couldn’t keep out of his voice. The words came out in a murmur.

Without another word, he swept his violin off his chair and into his hands. He started to play the first Christmas tune that came to his mind, praying John could not deduce the love and longing painted all over his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not be based on a true story.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr, if you fancy it:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com
> 
> Tomorrow's prompt: "You better watch out."


	3. You Better Watch Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John drinks eggnog and admires Sherlock's new Christmas attire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potential TW: drinking

The eggnog, topped with a dusting of delectable nutmeg, was offering the world around him a glow of diminished details. The flat was decorated with traces of the holiday season that warmed John’s heart, but none more than the sight of Sherlock in a festive sweater. Mostly black with an evergreen fuzzy Christmas tree, the shirt was decorated with real jingle bells disguised as ornaments. 

“It’s ridiculous,” he grumbled, lanky fingers playing with the fuzzy cloth adorning his torso.

It wasn’t. It was a bit short on him, his hip-bone jutting out from under it when he reached for a book on the shelf. Even so, he looked so handsome that John couldn’t bear to look at him for too long. Beholding him made him far too randy, for lack of a better word.

Now, with the eggnog coursing through him and dulling the world’s sharpest edges, John could not stop looking at him. As he sat across from him, he relished the way the Christmas lights cast harsh shadows along the panes of skin on the handsome face. He loved the way his eyebrows had twitched together ever so slightly as his eyes scanned the book in his hand.

Yet now he sat fiddling with his silly Christmas sweater and John was delusional with desire. He thought of the sweaters he owned, wishing Sherlock would stroke his jumpers like he was stroking his own.

John shook his head ferociously, the naughty images swirling around his drooping mind.

“You know, Sherlock, I quite like it,” John said lazily, smiling over the edge of his cup, nearly empty of its liquid.

“Hmm?” Sherlock had been transfixed by some portion of his mind palace, but John watched as his friend’s pupils dilated in the transition back to reality.

“The sweater. I like it.”

Sherlock scoffed, his eyes rolling in response. “Of course you do. You bought it.”

A low laugh escaped his mouth, his tongue moistening his lips as he continued to notice the smallest details of Sherlock’s body: his ankles peeking from beneath his trousers, his thighs pressing against the seat's material, his partially-exposed collarbone.

“No, I’m serious. I like it. It looks _really_ good on you.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, though the glisten in them revealed gentle intrigue, not scepticism. “You think so?”

“Absolutely.” He finished the rest of the eggnog in his cup for courage. “You better watch out, women everywhere will be falling over themselves if they see you in such a handsome jumper.”

A sigh and a playful smirk. “Again, I must remind you that women are not my area.”

“Then what, pray tell, is your area?” John flirted, and he was certain it was too far. He couldn’t make himself step back from the ledge he was so near to leaping from.

Sherlock appeared to think about the question for some time before his eyes connected once more with John’s. “That would be you, primarily.”

John blinked, his drunken mind processing far too slowly. “Me?”

“You.”

Was it the alcohol skewing his perception or was the alcohol making him question his legitimate perception? Was Sherlock Holmes… flirting?

“I can certainly guarantee that it is not only women who will fawn over your appearance in that sweater.” The words were out, his heart wringing out every last drop courage it held.

“Oh, sure,” he responded, the word getting drawn out in clear disbelief.

If only he knew.

“What?”

John’s eyes snapped open, the room around him appearing to him as though through an unfocused camera lens. He hadn't even noticed them fall shut. “What?”

“You said ‘if only he knew.’” Sherlock was staring at him curiously and John was burning under the intensity of those eyes.

“Yeah- er- I just meant that I- I think it looks good.”

A surprisingly sad sigh escaped the man and John knew he had gone too far. Instantly filled with regret, he cursed the empty cup in his hands. Sherlock stood up slowly, his head downturned to avoid John’s eyes. He walked right over to where John sat, plucked the cup out of his hands, and disappeared out of his sight into the kitchen behind him.

When Sherlock returned empty-handed, John’s eyebrows stitched together. “Why’d you take my cup if you weren’t getting me a refill?”

The detective said nothing for a long while as he assumed a comfortable position in his chair. After some time, Sherlock responded in a voice so soft, John’s ears were straining to hear it. “I reckon you have had enough, John. I don’t want you to… say anything you’ll regret.”

John yearned passionately to throttle the man and scream that he only regretted the things he couldn’t say. Wanted to yell at him and explain that the beverage helped give him the courage to say the things he was always wanting to say.

Instead, he simply said, “I won’t regret telling you how handsome you look in that sweater.”

The pair fell into a comfortable silence, John hauling himself up from his chair and into his room when his buzz turned into a quiet exhaustion. In the morning, he didn’t regret what he said but the two didn’t discuss the brief flirtation.

Yet over the course of the weeks leading up to Christmas, John was not oblivious to the number of appearances the sweater made in their flat. It seemed a nearly nightly guest of theirs and John relished the sight. He knew Sherlock recalled his words, knew that he wore if especially for John.

When Sherlock caught the lingering eye of John on Christmas Eve, he inquired exactly what he found so intriguing.

“Oh, nothing,” said John innocently, his eyes drinking up the sight of Sherlock. “It’s just still a very handsome sweater.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHERLOCK HE WANTS TO KISS YOU  
> Maybe one day these two will just... _communicate_??
> 
> Find me on Tumblr, if you fancy it.  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com
> 
> Tomorrow's prompt:  
> Snowman


	4. Snowman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, the Iceman, hates Christmas. He hates "family time." He hates how insufferable Sherlock and John are since they got together.  
> He doesn't _entirely_ hate Greg.  
> He isn't sure if he hates the gifts that Sherlock and John gave him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What! POV Mycroft Holmes?  
> I had a jolly good time writing this. Does this qualify as crack? I've never intentionally written crack but this might be it?

His brother was absolutely insufferable since he’d abandoned his caution of emotion. This day- this absolutely dreadful day- was only making him more intolerable.

John Watson was giddy with Christmas cheer and flushed with heat from the half-consumed cup of tea in his hand. His brother- more ridiculous than he could have imagined- was quite literally hanging off of him. One arm was thrown around the shoulders of the solider while the other was resting in playful motion on his stomach, both legs a mess of limbs over John’s lap. The two were sickeningly affectionate, unable to keep their bodies apart since they confessed their mutual affection.

No one was surprised, of course. Mycroft recalled Greg feigning a surprised gasp before abandoning the charade.

“Come on, Mycroft,” he had said dismissively. “It’s more of a surprise that it took so long.”

But it was Christmas day, Mycroft was internally counting the seconds until he could leave, and the whole house held the stench of love.

Sherlock seemed particularly proud of their joint gift-giving arrangement.

“Here, mum! This is from me _and John_ ,” he announced with heavy emphasis. The gift was clearly wrapped by Sherlock but the design of the wrapping paper was surely John’s choosing while the tag sat face-up with a message of love from both of them.

It was his turn now, John handing him the box addressed to “Mycroft” while the both of them were-poorly- suppressing bouts of laughter. Their faces were red, their lips trembling as they continued to look at one another in delight.

Whatever was in this box, Mycroft was definitely going to roll his eyes.

His fingers found the seam of the paper, careful not to rip into it like an imbecile. When the paper, clean and undamaged, fell off, it revealed another box. He despised the sentiment of this; wrapping a box that already hid contents was moronic.

Greg would have clapped him on the back and told him to have a bit of Christmas spirit.

Mycroft impatiently opened the box, quizzically examining its contents: a tacky snowglobe, a rather ugly sweater that would surely itch, and a collection of decorated sugar cookies.

It took him a moment to find any words, unsure of how to express the depth of his confusion. It was not a feeling he was accustomed to. The sound a ill-suppressed laughter from his brother and his boyfriend gave him his voice to simply ask, “Snowmen?”

Because that’s what was sitting in the box: inside the snowglobe sat a smiling snowman who would accumulate further height from the falling snow, the sweater depicted a snowman with two plump portions of body, and the cookies were snowmen personally decorated to be wearing suits and each stick-arm was holding a black icing-umbrella.

The two were unabashedly laughing now, his parents joining in on the laughter though they clearly didn’t understand either. He knew they were laughing more at the joy of their other son than from any understanding of the joke.

“Alright then,” said Mycroft with a sigh. “Explain the snowmen.”

It was John who answered. “Remember Moriarty’s nicknames for you both?” When Mycroft looked at him quizzically, John hurriedly added “Sherlock told me. Anyway, you two were the Iceman and the Virgin, right?”

“Well neither of those apply any more,” injected Sherlock with a smug tone, his arms wrapping more possessively around John’s neck. Their mother tensed a bit at the confession but said nothing. “I’ve got John and you’ve certainly softened since your... deepened kindship with Grahm.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to go rigid, and the involuntary action would not be lost on his brother. “I haven’t the slightest idea-”

“Shove off, Mycroft,” John laughed joyfully. “You’re still plenty cold and scary and all that-”

“But you’re certainly not the Iceman anymore,” finished Sherlock.

“You’re the Snowman!” the said together and fell into a laughter that left them clutching at one another. Mother rolled her eyes and walked into the kitchen for a cup of water while their father simply chuckled amusedly.

“Cold,” said John.

“But still soft,” sniggered Sherlock.

Mycroft’s prediction was right, his eyes rolling pointedly as he placed the box aside without withdrawing the contents.

“Thank you,” he said with no emotion.

He hated that even at that moment, he was waiting for the minute he could sneak a picture of the contents to send to Greg. He would rather enjoy the joke, and Mycroft couldn’t believe he was relishing that fact.

“Papa!” screamed Rosie, running into the living room with the toy train that Mycroft had given to her in hand. She ran into Sherlock’s arms, only just able to unwind themselves from John in time to catch her flying body. “Uncle Lestrade is here!”

Three pairs of eyes flickered to Mycroft before returning to the girl.

“And how did you reach the conclusion, little Watson?” asked Sherlock with sickening softness, his eyes twinkling as they looked at her.

She beamed with a smile that revealed every tooth- or would have if she wasn’t missing a few- and proclaimed “It’s a cab from London. Uncle Lestrade doesn’t have a car and he’s surely the only person who would pay the cab fare all the way from London to see us.”

The kid was smart, he would give her that.

Barely able to believe it, he realized her sensical deduction elevated his mood slightly. It was a promise of a not-entirely useless day.

His eyes flitted unbidden to the box beside him. Not the Iceman, but a snowman. Perhaps it wasn’t such a ridiculous idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mystrade?! I thought this was a _Johnlock_ advent calendar?!" some of my readers might say.  
> "I never meant for it to happen. Please forgive me," I beg, the bomb already diffused but I don't tell you because I need you to forgive me.
> 
> Tomorrow's prompt: Believe
> 
> (P.S. the phrase "the shoulders of the soldier" is an inside joke with myself. Growing up, I was never able to say those two words. Actually, that's a lie... I _still_ can't say them. I try to say one and accidentally say the other. Or it comes out as simple nonsense. I just can't seem to get my mouth around them. Hooray for author commentary!)


	5. Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John.” The candle was flickering innocuously on the table between them. Aromas of lilacs swam with a deluge of spices floating from the kitchen. The room was warm- too warm. “I love you.”
> 
> John said nothing, just stared across the miles between them and processed the words. His eyes, animated, reacted precisely as Sherlock predicted. First, going wide with shock, then narrowing suspiciously, the irises darting wildly around the pair of them. It was as though he was attempting to spot the source of the words- as though he would be able to find a criminal with a gun in-hand who was forcing Sherlock to say the words.
> 
> When no such figure was found, John looked to Sherlock once more, his face exposing every emotion within him: fear, scepticism, surprise. They flitted across his face like dancers across a stage.
> 
> “I don’t believe you.”

“John.” The candle was flickering innocuously on the table between them. Aromas of lilacs swam with a deluge of spices floating from the kitchen. The room was warm- too warm. “I love you.”

John said nothing, just stared across the miles between them and processed the words. His eyes, animated, reacted precisely as Sherlock predicted. First, going wide with shock, then narrowing suspiciously, the irises darting wildly around the pair of them. It was as though he was attempting to spot the source of the words- as though he would be able to find a criminal with a gun in-hand that was forcing Sherlock to say the words.

When no such figure was found, John once more looked to Sherlock, his face exposing every emotion within him: fear, scepticism, surprise. They flitted across his face like dancers across a stage.

“I don’t believe you.”

Sherlock had expected it. He hadn’t expected how much it would hurt.

“John,” he said again, so softly it was a breath. His face fell to the table, his hands clasping together in an effort to steady them. “After everything- everything we’ve been through- how can you not believe it?”

John was silent, his face continuing its adventure of processing. Yet at the heart of it, Sherlock saw a glint of willingness to understand. It was all he needed to push forward.

“Look within your heart,” he yearned with all the passion he could scrape from within. “You know it to be true. Look at the evidence, the solid proof I’ve supplied over these years. You know it’s true: I love you.”

John’s eyes stilled, his tension moving to his mouth. Sherlock watched as the jaw worked anxiously, trying to chew the proclamation into consumable pieces.

His voice was tense and brimming with something Sherlock couldn’t recognize when he spoke. “How long?”

It was a valid question. How long had it been? Truth be told, Sherlock could not pinpoint the moment he realised he was in love with John Watson. He knew it snuck up on him, the all-consuming need to protect him, be with him, make him happy. When he did realise it, he wondered how long he’d been in love without recognising the emotion. H knew the answer.

“Always. All this time. Since the beginning. Since the very first day.”

The restaurant around them was soft, peaceful. It was as though the building was not aware that everything was changing. The orbit of the world was altering right here, at table eight of this nice restaurant.

John was silent for ten seconds, thirty seconds, fifty-seven seconds…

Sherlock rose from his seat when exactly one minute passed without a word. He had his answer, there was no point remaining in the seat, subject to torture. He thought of when he’d been tortured in earnest, recalled how thoughts of John had sustained him.

This torture had him yearning for another release. He thought longingly of escaping this room- this horrible room with a world of pain- to find the relief of a needle.

He gave a wide berth to John’s seat as he walked briskly past and was already planning his next step when a gentle pressure wrapped itself around his right wrist.

John’s hand was holding him back. John, half-way out of his seat as they search each other's eyes with such intensity that it was dizzying.

“Swear it,” he said, voice gentle and aggressive in equal measure. “Swear you mean it.”

No heartbeat, no hesitation, no suspense. “I swear it. I swear that I love you, John Watson, with every ounce of my being.”

Rising from his seat and Sherlock paralysed, John’s hand slid down from his wrist into his palm. Their fingers linked so hesitantly it panged Sherlock’s heart. 

John’s face was hard, his body moving assuredly into Sherlock’s and closing the space between them with slow, sure movements. His other hand moved to wrap around the nape of Sherlock’s neck and knowing what John would do could not prepare him.

With a rise onto his toes, their mouths connected and everything in the world was right. Nothing could have been better, nothing on the great Earth could surpass the feeling of John’s lips on his own.

Months and years and lifetimes of waiting for this exact moment. Their embrace deepened, desperate with want of each other until it was dizzying to think about exactly what their bodies were doing.

Only when a timid waitress approached them asking them to be courteous of their other customers did they break apart, their hands fidgeting with one another.

Dinner, they decided, could wait. Rather, their evening would be better spent in a quiet location where they could snog to their heart's content. With childish glee, the two half-ran out of the building, rushing with endorphins and love toward the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep sigh. I didn't mean to write light angst. It just sort of... happened. Regular readers know that I love ( **love** ) writing angst. I'm an addict and my "fix" is writing misery. _But_ , if it's any consolation, I fought against my urge to write heavy angst and gave these two a happy ending.
> 
> Tomorrow's prompt: Fireplace  
> (I am taking a road trip to Portland tomorrow. I will do my best to post but I can't guarantee the time or internet access to do so. Please be patient with me.)
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	6. Fireplace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I will burn the heart out of you.”_
> 
> The words haunted him like fire. The threat thrived on his life, his every breath supplying it with greater power. The more he lived, the closer he was to the fruition of Moriarty’s plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super short one! Please forgive me, I had to write this one during a roadtrip and ran out of time.

_“I will burn the heart out of you.”_

The words haunted him like fire. The threat thrived on his life, his every breath supplying it with greater power. The more he lived, the closer he was to the fruition of Moriarty’s plan.

At the time, he hadn’t known what Moriarty meant. That confusion was borne from his belief that he didn't have a heart. It was before Sherlock learned exactly where his heart lay.

To burn his own heart would mean to burn John. His heart was not his own.

Their chairs were rearranged. John’s idea, of course. They sat compact and silent in John’s seat, placed directly before the fireplace.

Words were not spoken before the cracking of the flames, but Sherlock’s mind was racing. He couldn’t relax with his heart so close to those flames.

_“I will burn the heart of out of you.”_

The two were sharing the seat, a mess of limbs entwined in this small, intimate space. Sherlock tightened his embrace around John’s chest, his face nuzzling violently into the wool of his jumper.

“What’s wrong, my love?” John asked softly, his lips pressing into several curls atop his head.

 _Someone is going to hurt you. Someone, somewhere, is planning to hurt you because of me. There might be a time, perhaps tomorrow or perhaps in seventeen years, that you are injured or worse and I am unsure how to stop it_.

The pleasure of these moments of intimacy were lost with worry. He pulled John closer still and worked to push away the consuming fears.

John. John Watson. Real. Here. Holding him. The fire, innocent and warm.

“Nothing at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize again for the length. The next few may be a bit short since I have a hectic week ahead of me. I beg your forgiveness.
> 
> Tomorrow's prompt: Memories
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	7. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Which story would you like to hear, my dear?” John's fingers looped in and around the curls so delicately, a lesser effort wouldn't have moved the hair at all. He thought of the beautiful mind beneath these curls. Once storing every memory like a computer and now weakened with age- but always beautiful.  
> “What season is it?”  
> John's heart lurched, a too-familiar pain spidering out into the nerves of his fingers.  
> “It is nearly winter, my love. Eighteen days until Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is about Retirement!lock and may be sad. You've been warned.

“Which story will you share with me today?”

The peppered hair of Sherlock Holmes was limp in his lap where his gentle head rested. The rest of him was spread modestly over their couch, John sitting upright on one end to allow Sherlock ample room to lay.

“Which story would you like to hear, my dear?” John's fingers looped in and around the curls so delicately, a lesser effort wouldn't have moved the hair at all. He thought of the beautiful mind beneath these curls. Once storing every memory like a computer and now weakened with age- but always beautiful.

“What season is it?”

John's heart lurched, a too-familiar pain spidering out into the nerves of his fingers.

“It is nearly winter, my love. Eighteen days until Christmas.”

Sherlock considered this, his eyes glazing over with thought. John couldn't recall exactly when Sherlock had acquired each wrinkle on his still-perfect face. His eyes were decorated with a painting of them, his mouth surrounded by smile lines so indented, it hurt to observe.

Those, surely, were acquired after their marriage.

“Tell me of one of our Christmases.”

He considered the Christmases at 221B, the pain and joy mixing in a stew of stories to tell. The day was loaded for them, indicative of importance every year. Yet only one Christmas memory was worthy of today's tale.

“In 2020, London saw a white Christmas,” he said with the tone he knew Sherlock found comforting. “We were not yet together, but we were close. We opened gifts, ate a perfect meal, and we were settling in for a quiet evening when you observed the serene setting outside our window.”

“I asked if you wanted to take a walk. You asked me why you would want to do that and I told you that you didn't want to but otherwise I would go alone.”

Sherlock released a throaty chuckle at this, an almost-recollection of his absolute stubborn need to remain by John's side at all times.

“So you came with me. The streets were quiet, the snowy nighttime providing the city with a surreal atmosphere.”

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, a ghost of a grin dancing across his lips. John knew he was imagining the scene, grateful for this almost-memory.

“We walked in silence, the snow crunching minutely under our feet as we traversed streets we knew too well.”

“Then I looked at you.” John sighed then, the memory hitting him almost as hard as it had when it happened. “You were so beautiful. Back then, I tried to avoid looking at you. It was… painful. But on that perfect evening, you were enthralling. Snow was dusting your hair to give it a lovely halo of light dew, your jaw was set against the cold, your collar up in a vain attempt to look cool. Though, come to think of it, perhaps that was also to combat the cold.”

“Watching you then, I met your night-shadowed eyes. The whole of the world froze save for us and one solitary snowflake. It fell rebelliously down from the heavens to assume its place on the tip of your nose.”

Adorably, Sherlock's nose wrinkled at the description.

“I couldn't stop my hand from rising to wipe away that snowflake. The attempt to resist was futile. I rested my thumb on your nose, the moisture melting between my thumb and your skin before I swiped away that moisture. My hand rested on your cheek, a motion I had no excuse for. It was the natural position to assume after my thumb brushed your nose.”

“Then… the most amazing thing happened.”

A soft groan escaped from the man on his lap. “What happened?” Sherlock asked, demure.

“You leaned into my hand.” Sherlock smiled to the ceiling, pleased with his past-self. “You tilted your head into my hand and your eyes fluttered closed as you did so. I rubbed my thumb along your cheekbone, a motion I had dreamed of for so many years.”

“Your eyes opened to stare into my eyes under thick eyelashes. That moment lasted for so long- the two of us connected in the snowfall.”

“A snowflake fell on your upper lip. I knew you felt it because there was a hint of a twitch on your cupid’s bow. But you didn't move. Rather, you stared more intently into my eyes. My thumb itched toward the flake, making it as far as this corner of your mouth.” He touched the right side of Sherlock's mouth.

“But I gravitated toward you as though I was not in possession of any control. I moved toward you slowly, smoothly, and you moved into me.”

“With the tenderest of motions, I leaned up to your lips, brushing mine against them with the slightest touch. I felt the wet of the snowflake spread to my lip, a single gust of air expelling from us before we fell into each other with desperate intensity.”

“Hmmm.” The happy sound escaped Sherlock slowly. It was another minute before his eyes opened to their present world.

“Our first kiss was on Christmas day in the year 2020.”

“Yes, my love.”

Sherlock considered this with sorrow, a single tear rising to his iridescent eye. “I will forget in less than a week.”

“Hey,” John said sternly, his own tears threatening him with stings behind his eyes. Sherlock's head tilted to make eye contact. “Stop that. Details don't matter. Only the truth matters. You've never forgotten the truth. You never will.”

He shook his head in agreeance but said nothing.

“Tell me,” John ordered. “Tell me the truth- our truth.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, his ageing body shuddering with it. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. You are John Watson. We are in love and we've been married for over forty years."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good LORD, I cried buckets and buckets while writing this. I know not everyone finds this sort of stuff sad but I was _bawling_. Tomorrow's fic will be light and fluffy to heal my heart.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr, if you fancy it:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com  
> And now on DreamWidth:  
> https://itsalwaysyou-jw.dreamwidth.org/
> 
> Tomorrow's prompt: Music


	8. Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is not a good singer. Yet lately, he can't seem to stop singing around the house. John is too distracted by the horrible pitch to hear the lyrics, but he should be paying better attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay on this one. It's before midnight PST, but I'm sure it's already the 9th for many of you. Please forgive me!

Sherlock Holmes was many things: a friend, a brother, an asshole, a genius, a beautiful violinist, and a terrible singer.

The man had a more well-rounded understanding of music theory than anybody else he knew. Yet the application of such theory on his own voice was lacking.

John didn’t know this from experience. Rather, Sherlock himself had reported the fact to John bitterly on several occasions. Once, upon urging Sherlock to join him in a duet, the man had explained that he would not partake in an activity that requires a skill he did not possess.

Which is why, on the morning of December 8th, John noticed immediately the oddity that was Sherlock Holmes in the kitchen,  _ singing _ an unknown tune to himself. It wasn't the sort of moment where it floated to his ears, knocked politely, and it simply took a moment for John to recognize the figure in the doorway. From the first note that escaped his throat, the sound was a freight train to John’s dozing mind. It was an instant alertness.

His first thought was of the truth told by Sherlock. He truly was a terrible singer. 

Each note was a drag of off-pitch misery that caused John to flinch, though he wished he didn’t.  Nothing gets past Sherlock Holmes. The observance of even the slightest cringe would have resulted in a week-long pouting session that John would have been helpless to cure. Luckily, Sherlock was out of sight behind him for John’s rude reaction.

John marvelled at the fact that Sherlock didn’t seem to notice he was singing at all. It was a soft, unthinking noise and, despite the off-kilter tone, his heart was light with adoration at the newfound habit.

He should have been paying attention to the choice of song. The truth was that John was so consumed with hiding his displeasure that Sherlock's choice of song didn't particularly register. 

Yet the singing continued for days that turned into a week and a half until a specific set of lyrics caught John's ears.

_ I'm happy at home, you're my best friend _ .

Freddy Mercury was undoubtedly rolling in his grave. But the song flowed from Sherlock, again and again, underlying his actions throughout the day. Suddenly, John didn't mind the singing so much. In fact, one verse that Sherlock seemed particularly fond of cause his ears to perk up with every instance.

_ You're the best friend that I ever had. I've been with you such a long time, you're my sunshine and I want you to know that my feelings are true. I really love you. Oh, you're my best friend. _

Best friend. The song was glued in his mind, an obsessive curiosity that demanded attention. A shiver threatened the nape of his neck, a hesitant theory forming in the back of his mind: Perhaps Sherlock  _ did  _ know he was singing. Perhaps he had a very specific reason for singing. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock was sending him a message.

Evidence. He needed evidence. Just as Sherlock accumulated evidence to reach his deductions, so would John treat these songs as evidence to support his own cautious deduction.

The next day, Sherlock sang, with gusto,  _ I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore. _

Sherlock knew John could hear. John knew Sherlock knew John could hear.

Then came  _ People Will Say We’re in Love _ .

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Sherlock Holmes, with a known distaste for singing, suddenly picking up the habit and exclusively singing songs about love for someone close to them was not a coincidence.

It was days of personal battle before John could decide what to do. Should he ask Sherlock if his songs had meaning? Should he call him out on the matter? Should he let it slide? He was helpless at the prospect of taking action.

_ Come put your head upon my shoulder. She gave me her hand, but I ignored her. Oh, Doctor John _ _  
_ _ What am I doing, What am I doing I wrong? _

John froze where he stood. Sherlock was pacing in front of the window, the desk and bookshelf acting as turn around points as he moved between them thoughtlessly. His mouth was dry, his brain full of dim clarity.

_ Cause I keep on trying. Something ain't going, something ain't going on. Oh, Doctor John- _

“Sherlock,” John nearly choked, the words slicing through the air between them. Sherlock fell silent but didn’t look up.

“Yes?” There was almost certainly a knowing smirk on those beautiful lips.

“Go get dressed,” he demanded with confidence he didn't feel, eyes unable to behold the man before him.

A look of surprise passed over his face, eyebrows coming together in confusion. “I am dressed,” he rebutted, his robe open around a lounging shirt and loose trousers.

“No, I mean go get dressed for public. We’re going out.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, his eyes sliding to meet John’s with a smugness that John found both irritating and deeply arousing. “And why are we going out?” he inquired underneath thick eyelashes.

“We’re going on a date.” He tried to keep the words light and casual, but his nerves betrayed him. Voice shaking, he announced it with the air of a teenager asking his crush to the dance.

Sherlock smiled in earnest then, the balls of his feet bouncing him thrice as he exclaimed, “I’ll go get on a proper outfit,” before bounding out of the room.

An ancient tension John hadn’t known he was holding was released slowly, like gravity weighing down a snow-covered branch.

“John?” called Sherlock, several minutes later. He turned to see Sherlock’s head sticking out of his bedroom doorway, curiosity painted all over his face.

“Yes?”

“What song did it? Made you realize what was going on?”

He flushed with premature embarrassment. “Er- I think it was  _ You’re My Best Friend _ by Queen.” Sherlock appeared to consider this for a moment, perhaps calculating exactly what day the realization occurred and which songs hadn't been effective. “Now hurry up,” he said, excitement filling him with impatience. “You don’t want to keep your  _ date _ waiting, do you?”

The pair beamed at one another for an impossibly long moment, both of them seeing their futures in the other’s faces. When Sherlock disappeared once more into his bedroom, John didn’t feel nervous or worried. He only felt relief, the evening before him the destination of a journey he hadn’t realized he was taking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will likely end up re-writing this one. The concept of this was much better in my mind, I was trying a different writing style from what I usually use, and I am delusional with exhaustion. However, I am out of time to fix it so I hope at least some of you enjoyed this ficlet.


	9. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs help choosing a gift for John. Mycroft needs help spying on his little brother. Lestrade is the one helping both of them.  
> He's fortunate to have an unlimited texting plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade will never get a break from the Holmes brothers.

**Lestrade (DON’T ANSWER)**

I need help. SH

Immediately. SH

_Is everything okay? Where are you? I’m coming now._

_Sherlock?_

_SHERLOCK._

Calm down. I have a matter of great importance I need you for. 221B, now. SH

_If this is another issue with your pipes, call yourself a fucking plumber. I’m not your landlord._

You’d be better off as a plumber. SH

Are you coming? SH

Where are you? SH

If you were truly on your way, you’d have been here seven minutes ago. Where are you? SH

Is this about the plumber comment? SH

_Yes_.

Are you going to come help me? SH

_No_.

Fine. I’m sorry, okay? Now, will you come help? SH

Lestrade? SH

Please? SH

_On my way._

**Gregory**

It has come to my attention that my brother has texted you. Has hell indeed frozen over?

_Good evening to you, too. I don’t know about hell, but London in December has certainly frozen over._

_:)_

Very amusing. What did he want?

_He said he needed help with something. I’m heading over there now._

Help? Sherlock asked you for help? With what?

_He didn't say. I’ll let you know when I find out._

Thank you.

**Lestrade (DON’T ANSWER)**

I can't find anything. SH

_Ask an associate for help, then._

John deserves something better than what these tasteless associates could recommend. SH

_Did you just compliment my taste?_

I’m surprised your tiny legs could successfully make such an enormous leap. SH

But yes. SH

I wouldn't have asked for your help otherwise. SH

**Gregory**

I’m waiting.

_Relax, Myc. He just wanted help deciding what to get for John._

Don’t call me Myc. Did you recommend perhaps some lube and a butt plug?

_I recommended boudoir shots but I don’t think he got the joke._

I see no joke. Boudoir shots of my brother would be the perfect gift for John Watson.

_Do you think they’ll finally admit it soon?_

_Getting a bit old now._

_Like, we get it. You’re in love. Everybody gets it. Just get on with it._

Quite right. Perhaps I should get involved in the matter.

_Oh, I hardly think the British government needs to get involved in the relationship of two men._

_;)_

Hush.

**Lestrade (DON’T ANSWER)**

What was your initial recommendation for John’s gift? None of your other recommendations are good enough. SH

_Don’t you have a superhuman memory for this sort of thing?_

When I’m listening, yes. SH

Not so much when I’m not listening. SH

Which I wasn’t. SH

_Fuck off._

I’m telling Mycroft. SH

_Go ahead._

_Mycroft doesn’t scare me._

Ah, now there are two people who aren’t scared of him. He’ll be so disappointed. SH

Three, including myself. SH

_Who were you including before?_

John, of course. SH

_Of course._

_So you still need a gift for John?_

Yes. What was your first recommendation? SH

_I can’t remember_.

Please. Five minutes typing to say you can’t remember? You’re lying. SH

_Why don’t you get him a shaving kit? A very fancy one. You can say it’s to avoid any future moustaches._

That’s not a half-bad idea. But I’m not sure it’s good enough for my John. SH

John. SH

For John. SH

_What about a shaving kit and something more personal?_

_Maybe… grant him a booklet of coupons of sorts?_

John doesn’t need help saving money, idiot. SH

Are you really going to ignore me again? SH

LESTRADE. SH

You’re not an idiot. I’m sorry. Please help me. SH

:( SH

_I meant coupons FOR YOU. Like… five free passes to get you to just SHUT UP for once. And you’d have to obey them. Three coupons for the truth. And you’d have to tell it. That sort of thing._

You think he’d like that…? SH

_Sherlock, it would be the greatest gift you could give him._

**Gregory**

_He’s giving him Sherlock Coupons. Like to get him to shut up, tell the truth, explain things without being an asshole, that sort of thing._

John will burn through those in one day.

_There should be one where Sherlock has to admit his true feelings._

Perhaps there will be.

_Stop being mysterious and just explain what you mean. You know I’m going to ask._

_MYC_

I'm simply saying that if the coupons don't prompt a discussion, I could forge a different sort that would. John wouldn't know it's fake and Sherlock would be surprised into telling the truth. I have my ways of spectating on those closest to me to see such a course of action is necessary or now.

_Is there literally any chance at all that you don’t have cameras in my house?_

Oh, Gregory.

There is always a chance.

**Lestrade (DON’T ANSWER)**

I have five passes to get me to shut up, three passes for a non-condescending explanation, two passes where he can fill in the blank, and ONE where he is allowed to ask me ONE question about my sex life. SH

He’s incessantly curious. SH

Won’t stop asking. SH

_Geez, I wonder why._

_I think one will be plenty._

What are you implying? SH

Lestrade. SH

LESTRADE. SH

_SHERLOCK IT HAS BEEN SEVEN MINUTES. I do have a life, you know._

But Mycroft is busy with the UN. SH

What were you implying? SH

_John is going to love your gift, Sherlock. Did you get him the shaving kit as well?_

Yes. SH

I suspect he will use the first “shut up” pass when I give it to him and mock his moustache. SH

_Then give him the kit first. Get it out of your system. Then give him the coupons._

I mock you frequently, but every now and then you have a brilliant idea. SH

_You mock me frequently?_

Thank you for your help, Detective Inspector. Couldn’t have done it without you. SH

Do say hello to my brother when you see him tonight. SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps Lestrade could actually solve his cases if the Holmes bros weren't so needy.  
> I love them. All of them.
> 
> And yeah, John is literally going to read the card on sexuality, hand it to Sherlock with no hesitation, and be like "ARE YOU ATTRACTED TO ME" and then they're going to do it all night.
> 
> This was so much fun to write. Thank you for reading!


	10. Do You See What I See?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why does John’s imminent marriage bother you?”  
> He wanted to scream. He wanted to wail and pound his fists against the wall. He wanted to suppress the truth so far deep inside of himself that it would never desire to see the light of day. He wanted to be the person he pretended to be.  
> Or perhaps he wanted to scream his truth. Perhaps he wanted to walk out of here and unapologetically be the person laying starved deep inside him. Perhaps what he really wanted was permission to drop his charade.  
> “I love him,” he choked out. His eyes were burning with want of tears, his world crumbling apart beneath him as the confession fell out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh. Okay, I swore this ficlet collection would be all fluff and yet here we are again: at the corner of Angst Avenue and Crying Boulevard.  
> Let me just say, from the bottom of my heart: my bad.
> 
> If it's any consolation, this was originally HEAVY angst. I cut it down and edited it to make it slightly less heartbreaking. Perhaps one day the original will see the light of day.
> 
> Context: I've been thinking a lot about the end of TST when Sherlock is speaking with Ella in that weird room; about how the room looks like an attic, about how the encounter is never explained, and about how it probably wasn't the first time Sherlock saw her.  
> "I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose." -A Study in Scarlet

“Why have you come back now?”

The question was infuriatingly innocent. She knew. She knew why he was here. “You’re going to make me say it?”

Ella remained silent, her analytical eyes rarely blinking as they took in his state. He released a sigh, weighed down with sorrow. “He is getting married. Tomorrow.”

“John?”

“Yes.”

The pointed window to his left was spilling yellow light at their feet. The turquoise wallpaper had been chosen for its calming impact, but his fingers were drumming restlessly against his thigh in time with his anxiety.

“Why does the fact both you?” Ella asked with a patience beyond what Sherlock could comprehend.

Sherlock said nothing but continued to observe his own fingers as they betrayed him. His body was constantly doing this. Often, the thought crossed his mind that if somebody- anybody- could deduce as he could, they would see right through him. His fears, anxiety, and other unwanted emotions spilled out of him in the form of trepidations, tremors, fidgeting, tapping, and pacing. All these behaviours were physical manifestations of what he worked so hard to hide: feelings.

Perhaps that’s why Mycroft treated him as a helpless toddler. Perhaps Mycroft deduced Sherlock for the frightened, lovelorn idiot he was.

“Sherlock,” she prompted, rocking him violently from his thoughts and drawing him back to her. “I need you to cooperate. I need you to talk to me.” When he said nothing but silently met his eyes to hers, she continued, “Why does John’s imminent marriage bother you?”

He wanted to scream. He wanted to wail and pound his fists against the wall. He wanted to suppress the truth so far deep inside of himself that it would never desire to see the light of day. He wanted to be the person he pretended to be.

Or perhaps he wanted to scream his truth. Perhaps he wanted to walk out of here and unapologetically be the person laying starved deep inside him. Perhaps what he really wanted was permission to drop his charade.

“I love him,” he choked out. His eyes were burning with want of tears, his world crumbling apart beneath him as the confession fell out.

Exposed. She studied him mechanically and he despised it. There was no way out. Long ago had he passed the point of no return and now he was helplessly locked on this nightmare of a path. 

“Do you?”

His throat was tight with emotion. “Yes, of course.”

“Then why are you trying to bury your love beneath miles of science and unfeeling reason?”

“Because it’s all I know!” The bellowed admission hung in the air, a fragile bubble of truth unable to withstand the pressure of the world around it for too long.

Ella set her pen down on the page, eyes turning from analytical to kind and understanding. The truth of Sherlock’s confession was heavy around them, her analytical mind formulating her next words carefully. “Do you see what I see?”

“How could I?” Sherlock spat, resentment toward her rising in him with ferocity. “You’re the one with the medical degree and experience with this sort of thing. ”

The words were unnecessary, he knew. He knew their purpose as a wall of protection rather than a representation of any genuine viewpoint. It was cold in their room, the brisk outside air seeping in through thin, unprotected walls. The wallpaper was peeling, he realized. Beneath the cheap paper was a rotting wall of filth that seeped ice into his heart and mind.

“Sherlock,” Ella said softly, kindly. “You do see what I see.”

He huffed, resistant to accept her truth. “And how do you reckon that?”

“Sherlock,” she repeated, hesitant and concerned. “You do know where you are, don’t you?”

He said nothing. The wallpaper. It was peeling. Actively peeling, before his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Then you know what I see. Because you see it.”

She was falling away from him, fuzzy with distance and appearing not to notice at all that her very existence was falling apart.

“Tell me,” he begged. “Don’t make me say it, just tell me.”

The world stopped, Ella suddenly crystal clear once more. She sat professionally in her chair, her hair the style it always assumed in his mind palace. Her words were mechanical, rushed. They were his words, his own subconscious breaking through to deliver the message.

“You love John Watson. He is getting married tomorrow. Your refusal to accept your emotions as healthy-and normal- combined with your undying drive toward the factual and scientific are the causes of this situation. Your whole life, you’ve listened to Mycroft and worked hard to create this image of yourself that does not match who you truly are.”

Sherlock wanted to cry. His body was shaking with unshed tears, begging for the sweet release.

“You need to change. You need to embrace the subjective aspects of life. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for John Watson.”

With that, he was present. Not in a doctor’s office, not in the chilled attic of his mind palace, but at home. His home that was not home without John.

It was too late to be with John. He understood that- was even close to accepting it. Yet it was not too late to be a better man for him. He couldn't be a significant other to the man, but he could be an exceptional friend- a good man.

For John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've seen Frasier, don't call me out. If you haven't seen Frasier, then yes; I am brilliant and all of this was totally original.  
> (The episode where Frasier tried to give himself therapy but he can't help himself. His mentor asks why he is trying to bury himself in psychiatric exercises and Frasier screams "Because it's all I know!" It's truly a powerful moment and I was thinking about it when I was planning this fic.)
> 
> As always, find me on Tumblr:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com  
> OR on Dreamwidth:  
> https://itsalwaysyou-jw.dreamwidth.org/
> 
> Tomorrow's prompt: Comfort and Joy (yes, it will be fluffy.)  
> Thank you for reading. <3


	11. Comfort and Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry you fell in, that-”
> 
> “What?” interrupted Sherlock with a genuine appearance of astonishment. The word was flat with utter confusion. “I’m not upset that I fell.”
> 
> The man was nearly standing in a puddle of his own making now.
> 
> “No? Then why are you so upset?”
> 
> “The evidence, John!” he bellowed with agony. “I fell and couldn’t obtain the evidence. It got away from me. The culprit of those murders is still out there and I’m no closer to finding him than I was this morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Established Johnlock! My favourite.
> 
> (You may wonder why John wasn't with Sherlock on the case. Sherlock was out and about when he stumbled upon it, certain it would be simple and he wouldn't need John's help.)

The palm of his hand was warm with the heat of the cuppa resting in his hand when the crashing door below sounded in John's ear. The liquid in his saucer danced in its pool as the sound reached John and his body reacted with the smallest of jerks. His face twitched into a smile twice as he heard Sherlock stomping up the stairs with theatrical noises of displeasure.

His flight up the stairs took just a bit too long to be believable, his figure finally stumbling through the doorway in a damp jacket.

Wait- not damp. Soaking, sopping wet. The whole of him, from his hair straight with moisture to the cuffs of his trousers, was dripping with water.

“What the hell happened?” John demanded of the man whose bottom lip was jutting out in a furious pout.

His hands rose above his head in a mock-surrender (or perhaps it was a crude shrug) and launched into a rush of words. “I was in pursuit of what I was certain was a critical piece of evidence on the smallest bit of paper. It was necessary to wade into the cursed Thames to acquire it but  _ I fell _ .”

John couldn’t refrain against the smile that fought for its place on his face.

“It isn’t funny,” Sherlock murmured with resentment in his voice.

“No, I know. You’re right,” John rushed to reassure. “I’m sorry you fell, that-”

“What?” interrupted Sherlock with a genuine appearance of astonishment. The word was flat with sheer confusion. “I’m not upset that I fell.”

The man was nearly standing in a puddle of his own making now.

“No? Then why are you so upset?”

“The  _ evidence _ , John!” he bellowed with agony. “I fell and couldn’t obtain the evidence. It got away from me. The culprit of those murders is still out there and I’m no closer to finding him than I was this morning.”

Wordlessly, John set his cup of tea down beside him, rose from his place on the couch, and crossed over to the dripping detective.

“You are an absolutely ridiculous madman, you know that?” Folding his hands behind his back to avoid placing them on any soaked article of clothing, he went up on the balls of his feet to lightly press his lips against Sherlock’s.

Each kiss of theirs was a moment outside of time. From the first kiss to the smallest pecks they shared, from the passionate, desperate embraces to this kiss right here; they were nuggets of golden existence. 

Colour rose to the freezing cheeks and it occurred to John that jumping into the Thames in December was quite a bad idea for one’s health. The realization causing a domino effect into observing the manner in which Sherlock’s extremities were shaking with the cold.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” he cried, and the sudden volume of it pushed surprise to Sherlock’s expression. “What were you thinking?”

He couldn’t deduce John’s train of thought. He watched as his eyebrows stitched together in thought, attempting to understand exactly which point John had gone from sympathetic to angry. He watched as he tried to make sense of his sudden outcry.

“I told you, I was trying to get evidence.”

“You bloody idiot,” he wrenched. “You’re going to get hypothermia. Or pneumonia. Or-  _ Christ, Sherlock _ .”

He didn’t care what excuses Sherlock had. He truly didn’t. All he cared about was getting the man in a right state.

“Come on,” John ordered, grabbing the thin, freezing hand and drawing him to their bedroom. Through protests, he made Sherlock shed the filthy, wet clothing while he left with spare clothes in hand to turn on the water in the shower to a moderately warm temperature.

“Get in,” he said when Sherlock appeared in a towel that was doing quite a poor job of covering anything.

“John,” he groaned. “I’m fine. You’re overreacting.”

“I’m not-”

Sherlock moved in to close the space between them, his head hanging low, directly above John’s. The scent of him wafted through the air and intoxicated every rational thought in his mind. Sherlock’s lips were a breath away, so nearly touching his own that he imagined he could feel them on him. His torso was settling against his own with the soft motion of a dancer, their bodies aligning. Every protestation John possessed was ejected. 

“I can think of other ways to warm up,” purred Sherlock into the hollow of his cheek. Slowly, so slowly, the wet tips of Sherlock’s hair were dragging along the side of his face as his mouth found the lobe of his ear. Warm breath played at the expanse of neck beneath his ear before he felt a sharp, exhilarating nip on his earlobe.

An involuntary moan of extasy escaped him. God, the things this man could do to him.

His hands, so adamantly glued to his side to resist temptation, rose against his will and wrapped around the flawless waist of his boyfriend.

The motion was a jolt back to reality. Instantly, John was drawn from the moment and shocked back into the urgent reality that was Sherlock’s poor health. His hands, upon touching his waist, felt how dangerously cold Sherlock still was from his December adventure in the river.

“Nice try,” he whispered because a whisper is all he could manage without exposing how weak he was. The steam rising from the running shower lent Sherlock an ethereal beauty, all darkness and angles through a swirl of vapour. “Get in the water, Sherlock. Stay there for ten minutes. Then come to the sitting room.”

He left Sherlock in his sorrow without another word, too worried about his resolve crumbling if he stayed for even one more moment. He clicked the door closed behind him, paused to take a long, steadying breath, made sure he heard Sherlock pull aside the shower curtain to get inside, and made his way to their sitting room.

John went to work immediately setting the fireplace ablaze with a heat Sherlock would require. When the job was done, he scrambled to acquire two blankets that were wide enough to cover both of them. He then pulled his chair into a location closer and directly in front of the fire. Finally, the water shutting off in the bathroom, John rushed to pull over a soft, warm sweater before settling in, slightly out of breath, into his chair.

Sherlock stomped out of the bathroom in a foul mood, wearing the warm pyjama set that John had placed in the bathroom for him. The ensemble even included a pair of fuzzy socks that featured foxes leaping over a grumpy polar bear.

He looked so adorable, John’s heart contracted with love at the sight.

Still, Sherlock was pouting with memories of John’s rejection, feet loudly hitting the floor as he made his way over to where John sat. When he reached the chair, he gazed at John sourly, lips pursed in consideration.

In that moment, John’s heart was light. This man that he decided to love was insane, ridiculous, immature, dramatic, and absolutely perfect in every imaginable way. He loved him so dearly.

John smiled wide and held his arms open before him, an invitation that Sherlock knew too well. Although his face remained a mask of sour disapproval, he showed no hesitation in accepting the invitation.

The physics of it shouldn’t have been possible. Sherlock was a bit like a cat; able to fit himself into any seating arrangement or space that he decided he wanted to. And thus, Sherlock crawled on top of John in that small seat. His bum settled to the left of John’s thighs, his feet resting on the right side and sliding into the nook of the seat for additional warmth. Sherlock’s arms wound tightly around John’s neck and his face nestled aggressively against John’s collarbone.

The still-freezing skin sent pinpoints of ice through John’s chest, but he didn’t care. Reaching behind him, he grabbed one of the blankets that he’d tossed over the back of the chair and struggled to manoeuvre it around the pair of them. When everything was covered, he relaxed against the warm embrace.

If this would be his life, he could be happy. If his life was adventures and taking care of this man, he would have no regrets at all.

They sat in silence for a long time. Sherlock’s breathing evened out into soft, sparse breathes. John’s mind wandered to memories of them.

After some time, John wondered if Sherlock was asleep. He kissed the curls on the top of his head, unable to help himself.

“I love you, Sherlock” he whispered, revelling in the way the words were free in the world, unbidden by anything at all.

Warm breath exhaled against John’s skin and he felt and heard the gentle smile in his reply. “I love you, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't actually use the words "comfort and joy," but I rather think I captured the essence of the phrase, don't you?
> 
> Tomorrow's prompt: Gingerbread  
> A bit of warning that tomorrow's may be late since I work from 9 am until 9 pm. I apologize ahead of time and I will try to get it posted in a timely fashion.


	12. Gingerbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock brings homemade gingerbread men to a Christmas party. The guests can't help but notice the cookies look... familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What! We're halfway done already?!  
> Sorry for the late update. I am exhausted beyond reason and I sincerely cannot tell if this chapter makes any sense. I hope it does.

Everybody saw it except for Sherlock. John's cheeks burned with the eyes darting to him every few minutes as he fought to pretend that he, too, didn't see it.

He did, of course. He was wholly unsure of what it meant, of course.

Still, Donovan's incessant snickering, pointing, and jeering made him want to turn around and scream. He was one-  _ one _ \- sly comment away from punching Anderson square in the face.

He wondered if people weren't eating them because of the situation or because they were worried Sherlock poisoned them.

“They're homemade,” proclaimed Sherlock proudly when he'd arrived at the potluck Christmas party with the plate.

“You don't say,” Lestrade said, not unkindly though his eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

The party was in full swing, a nice handful of people already on their way from tipsy to all-out drunk when John noticed Sherlock sitting and silently sulking in an abandoned corner.

Even as John ordered himself not to, he was walking over to him.

“Hey,” he said, too awkwardly for how close they were supposed to be. His hands were suddenly too limp at his side. What did he normally do with his hands? “Why don't you go talk with some people? Some of them are bearable, you know.”

He huffed at that, and John had to agree with the sentiment. “Why should I?”

A child. He was a child.

“Because it's a  _ party _ . Good for talking, socializing, that sort of thing.”

Sherlock shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming with an unheard thought. “No one’s eating my gingerbread men.” He said it as though the fact made him angry, but John recognized the distinct manner of disappointment in his tone beneath the facade.

John looked over to the plate of twelve gingerbread men, all still arranged in the flowering tower Sherlock had arranged them in. Each man was equipt with blue gumdrops for eyes and (admittedly impressive) icing outfits of plaid collars beneath what were clearly knitted jumpers. Each cookie’s expression displayed a varying range of displeasure that was just too familiar.

John’s eye colour. John’s fashion. John’s attitude.

“Well,” John started lamely, “it’s probably because of all the other food. We did get here late, everybody's probably already full. Or maybe they think you’ve poisoned the lot of them.”

This earned a reluctant laugh from the detective stewing in resentment. “It would have been an excellent opportunity. I would have gotten Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan all in one go.”

“Exactly!” agreed John, eager to encourage this explanation. What was his other option? Saying “Hey Sherlock, nobody’s eating the cookies because you decorated them to look like me and it’s totally weird.”

No. He couldn’t say that. Truthfully, John wasn’t sure if it  _ was _ all that bizarre. Of course, it was strange and more than slightly embarrassing. But did John mind?

Blood rushed to his cheeks imagining Sherlock hunched over the lot of goodies, spending hours creating intricate patterns on the gingerbread to resemble John. It was difficult to imagine. Even more difficult to imagine  _ why _ .

“Do you like them?”

John’s head snapped to look directly at the source of the question. Sherlock’s eyes were wide with an intense curiosity that held John still with their beauty. He was weak in the knees, praying Sherlock didn’t deduce the meaning of his slight unbalance.

“Do- do I like them?” he stuttered stupidly.

“Yes. Do you like them?”

The chorus of party-goers was a thundering riot in his ears during that moment caught in his gaze.

“Yes, Sherlock. I love them.”

He did. God help him, he loved them. He loved that Sherlock did it, loved that he brought them here, loved that everybody was wondering what the hell it meant, and loved that it mattered to Sherlock that he did love them.

A show of white teeth spread across Sherlock’s face in response and he rose rapidly from his seated position. “I haven’t even tried them yet,” he said in a blur of words. His tone was excited, his step light with his newfound joy. “Come join me in trying one, won’t you?”

“I haven’t completely ruled out the possibility that they’re poisoned,” he teased, his spirits rising in turn with Sherlock’s.

“Ah,” said Sherlock with mock severity. “You never can.”

John was grateful to trail behind him to hide from the man just how wide his smile was.

The pair bit into their cookies simultaneously (upon the insistence of John, who wouldn’t eat them without Sherlock also doing so) to a number of darting eyes.

“Hey, freak,” called Sargent Donovan whose words were lightly slurred with alcohol. “Why’d you give them  _ jumpers _ ?”

So John wasn’t going to punch Anderson, after all. Donovan would receive that honour. His instinct to retaliate was interrupted, however, by a straight-faced Sherlock who answered the rhetorical question almost immediately.

“Because I wanted them to be perfect.”

Were it not for the dim lighting, the whole room would have seen John’s face flush with fire. Music continued to play innocently around them and only a few people had the decency not to stare.

“You know what?” said Lestrade happily, breaking the silence and striding over to the plate of deserts to pick one up. “I think they  _ are _ perfect.”

As Greg bit off a piece and clapped Sherlock on the back, everyone around them seemed to decide there were, after all, more interesting things than Sherlock and John.

“Thank you,” muttered John under his breath when Sherlock was successfully distracted and deducing a so-called “swim instructor.”

“Don’t mention it,” Lestrade responded with a casual wave of his hand. “Would have done it sooner but I was more than a little convinced it was a ploy to poison us all.”

John gave a huff of laughter, shaking his head at the thought.

“Knew he wouldn’t poison you though.” With that, he winked and wandered off to make conversation with Molly who was looking much too disappointed.

There, alone and surrounded by groups of chatting people, John was content. He took one last glance at the gingerbread men, smiled at them, and crossed the room to stand by Sherlock’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT! I am a mere nine kudos away from ONE HUNDRED kudos. I know _logically_ that isn't a lot, but I only have one other work with that many. So I have a proposition for you all:  
> If you share this ficlet collection on Tumblr and tag me (@itsalwaysyou-jw) to help get this work exposure, I will:  
> 1\. Dedicate tomorrow's fic to you with a shout out  
> 2\. Take requests for one of the fic's prompts. (You want fluff? You got it! Cuddling? Sure thing! "For A Case" Relationship? Sure! Just tell me and I'll do one.)  
> Alternatively, you can share this on whatever other platforms you wish. Just let me know somehow and we can chat. :)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. I appreciate you all. <3


	13. Frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His heart was surely trying to rip itself out of his chest with its pounding when his eyes lay upon the table with the game on it. Offering a half-grin to the employee who greeted him, he made his way to the board and saw that there was, in fact, a competitor for him. The paper read:_
> 
> Redbeard  
> Moves: |
> 
> _John smiled a genuine, wild smile. His first in quite some time. The motion was foreign to him- like the expression wasn’t really even his own._  
>  _Over the course of the next few weeks, that game was the highlight of his days. Every day, he would stop in before work, during lunch, and after work to check on the progress. Most days, there would be at least one move from his competitor- Redbeard. On wonderful days, there would be two. On the worst days, there were zero._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold: my very first "Coffeeshop AU" but with a ~~ _twist_ ~~
> 
> How did I get from "Frost" to this? I honestly don't know. But this is the longest ficlet yet. Happy Thursday!

Damn. They’d gotten one of John’s knights. Now their pieces were sprawled across the board with both sides balanced while his own pieces were scattered with less intention. John had never been under any illusion that this would be a game he could win, but the inevitable loss still caused a rise of anxiety.

He counted them, an unnecessary act since he’d already known how many there were before the knight’s disappearance. Still, he counted: two pawns, two rooks, one knight, one bishop, and his kind and queen still intact. Alternatively, his opponent still had three pawns, both knights and rooks, one bishop, and their queen and king.

It all started exactly 32 days earlier.

* * *

John’s first day in his new civilian job coincided with the winter’s first frost. The cold bit at his neck and the tips of his fingers, but the break room where he was expected to enjoy his lunch was suffocating with its drab, medical environment. He’d grumbled something about needing fresh air and sought refuge in a quaint shop lit up with delicate, blinking Christmas lights.

Inside was warm, mellow, and more welcoming that he could have imagined. It was as though he’d gotten home from a long day, as though he’d returned to a place of great importance from his past. It was the first instance of joy he’d felt at all since returning home from the war.

The small shop was ordained with bookshelves brimming with a variety of fiction and nonfiction essays, novels, and picture books. Along one shelf, dozens of board games were lined up in worn boxes. Only seven tables were available for customers with only three of them occupied. The two employees moving in fluid, dance-like cadence behind the counter were wearing matching black aprons.

John realized, then, that it was not a simple bakery, as he’d assumed. Rather, he’d walked into a quaint coffee shop. Of the three patrons, not one of them looked up to investigate who, exactly, the stranger was as he entered the unknown space. Instead, John felt comfortable. Relaxed. Welcome.

When he ordered his black coffee, he was feeling generous (too generous, in hindsight) and told the cashier to keep the change from his ten. John was nearly about to reprimand himself when he justified the decision with a reminder that he could afford to do it now that he’d secured a steady job.

A rather beautiful woman sat two tables down from him, though he could not catch her eyes despite how hard he laboured. Another man that John figured was around his own age- perhaps a few years younger?- sat in the isolated corner seat, face hidden behind a thick volume of pages. He spotted jet-black curls above the book and forced himself to tear his eyes away from his long legs that were crossed and bouncing to an unheard rhythm. The only other person sitting in this small space was an older gentleman who stared out the window, clearly lost in wistful thoughts that left the rest of them behind.

John’s lunch was too short that day. He rose from his seat, placed his cup by a sign that read “ _Please place all dirty cups, plates, and utensils in this bin. Thank you. -Grounds for Thought_ ”, and proceeded gloomily toward the door when something else caught his eye.

He was drawn to it as though there was a magnetic pull. On the opposite side of the shop from the door and behind where John had been sitting was another, shorter table. Upon this table sat an ancient, beautiful chess set. There was a sign attached to the wall above it that read:

 _Chess Rules:_  
_If you play a live game, please properly reset the pieces at the conclusion of each game._  
_If you would like to play against a mystery opponent, you may start a long-term match, but please abide by these rules:_  
__1\. Place your name (or a pseudonym) on your side of the table and, beneath your name, start a tally of how many moves you have made._ _  
_2\. Wait for a challenger to also place their name or pseudonym on the opposite side and begin the competition._  
_3\. If you begin the game, you must make two moves per week (each) or the board will be reset._  
_4\. BE HONEST, NO CHEATING OR YOU WILL BE DISQUALIFIED. :)_  
_5\. When one player needs to declare check or checkmate, a note must be left on the opponent's side._  
_6\. Have fun!!!_  
-Grounds for Thought Staff

Without knowing why, John was asking for a piece of paper from an employee who smiled and wished him luck. Across the paper, he wrote:

 _Captain Hamish  
_ _Moves: |_

He moved a white pawn to E4, allowed only one brief glance to the pretty women whose eyes still hadn’t risen from her screen, and walked briskly back to work.

Five impossibly long hours later, John was off of work and ready to relax. It was his understanding that most people clocked out and sighed with anticipation of getting home. For John, however, the thought of going back to his flat where sounds were too loud, his thoughts too consuming, and his dreams unbearable left a tight knot of dread in his stomach. His feet carried him back to the shop, his mind reeling against the ridiculous choice.

He promised himself that he would just go in to check whether anybody else played a move on the chessboard, but he was kicking himself for hoping. After all, it would probably be weeks before somebody decided to engage in the game he’d begun. It was a stupid hope. But it was all he had.

His heart was surely trying to rip itself out of his chest with its pounding when his eyes lay upon the table with the game on it. Offering a half-grin to the employee who greeted him, he made his way to the board and saw that there was, in fact, a competitor for him. The paper read:

 _Redbeard  
_ _Moves: |_

John smiled a genuine, wild smile. His first in quite some time. The motion was foreign to him- like the expression wasn’t really even his own.

Over the course of the next few weeks, that game was the highlight of his days. Every day, he would stop in before work, during lunch, and after work to check up on the progress. Most days, there would be at least one move from his competitor- Redbeard. On wonderful days, there would be two. On the worst days, there were zero moves.

Those days left John with an emptiness he felt pathetic for experiencing. It was as though this game- and this game alone- was the reason for him to wake up in the morning. When he needed to rationalize it, he reminded himself that the game offered him mystery and something to look forward to. It was more than he could say about any other aspect of his life.

That is how he came to be standing there, thirty-two days later to see his knight gone with the papers reading:

 _Captain Hamish  
__Moves:_ _~~||||~~ ~~||||~~ ||||_

 _Redbeard  
__Moves:_ _~~||||~~ ~~||||~~ ||||_

As always, John did a quick scan of the coffee shop for anybody who could potentially be “Redbeard.” None of the individuals were promising candidates: two women and one man sat in chairs around him. None of them with red hair, a red beard, or any other indication of interest in John’s presence.

Did Redbeard wonder who he was?

“Have you- er- seen who my opponent is?” he had softly asked one of the employees about five days into the game.

“I sure have,” said the man with a knowing smile.

“Right,” said John, trying desperately not to allow his excitement to show. “Can you tell me who they are?”

“Afraid not, sir. One of the rules.”

 _Damn_. “Could you tell me if they’re a man or woman?”

“Afraid not, sir.”

“How about whether they’re an adult or child?”

“No, unfortunately not, sir. I’m sorry,” the employee said, and he actually did seem sorry.

“Right,” said John again through tight teeth. He had to remind himself forcefully that he couldn’t go burning bridges here. He also had to remind himself that it wasn’t the employee's fault. Still, frustration burned in him.

He felt such kinship with this opponent of his. He yearned desperately to meet them, shake their hand, talk to them.

Redbeard was a pseudonym that seemed to match a man’s persona. Yet the writing was loopy and neat. Based on that, the balance of probability said that they were a woman.

He wondered if he’d ever know.

With his hopes at an all-time low and knowing the game was coming rapidly to a close, he unthinkingly moved his queen to kill one of his rooks and travelled back to his empty, miserable flat.

* * *

_Check.  
_ _-Redbeard_

Shit. John’s eyes racked the board, desperate for a way to kill the queen who was one move away from a checkmate. He was so surprised, he couldn't even think to scan his surroundings. Instead, he scanned every piece, imagined their best possible move for his given situation, and juggled between two options: save his king as a short-term solution or kill the queen but leave himself vulnerable to attack from one of their rooks.

John’s fingers wrapped hesitantly around his pawn, certain he must claim the queen for his long-term safety.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” came a low voice from directly over his soldier.

The sudden sound was such a surprise, the pawn fell from John’s grip and landed with a clatter on the board, knocking over several other fragile pieces with it.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he groaned, watching with panic as the chessmen rolled from their places to new squares. He had only an idea of where they were before and no way to replace them in their exact locations without guessing. He would appear a cheater in the face of his imminent loss. He turned with fury to the source of the voice that had caused so much destruction to his game- the best thing in his life this past month. “Look what you made me-”

The words died on their way out, getting lost somewhere along their path as John took in, quite literally, the most handsome man he’d ever seen in his life. Irridesent, wide eyes that shared the same colour scheme as the ocean stared at him through unblinking lids that were host to a brush of lashes that were impossibly long. His face was a beautiful portrait and his cheekbones were an expensive frame. They jutted out at sharp angles that lent his cheeks a long but surprisingly soft appearance. It was an ethereal beauty that was unlike any other he’d seen on a man.

Bisexual panic rose in him, his mouth dry and uncertain whether or not to continue yelling at him for ruining the game. He debated switching his approach to flirting.

“Don’t worry,” he said, matter-of-factly. He moved around John fluidly, the motion sending a gust of air toward John that smelled of woods and coffee, and began to arrange the chess pieces into upright positions. “I remember how they were.”

John watched in awe as the man placed the fallen pieces into squares that actually seemed to look right. Could it be-

“Can I help you?” he asked with attempted severity but instead only achieved a sort of choked quality.

The gorgeous man stayed silent as he finished straightening the board. When he finished, he stood up, brushed his hands together, and met his eyes to John’s once again. “No, you cannot. But I can help you. The name’s Sherlock Holmes.”

He extended one smooth hand to John, which he shook with vigour. Practically starstruck, John repeated the name in his head until he was dizzy with it. _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes…_

“John Watson,” he said without thought, eager to learn more about the man. “And how, exactly, do you plan on helping me?”

“Moving that pawn would have allowed a checkmate on black’s very next turn. It'd have been a nail in your coffin. Instead, you should move your king and use your remaining knight to take out the pawn protecting _their_ king on your _next_ move. Black’s moves will be limited if you hide your king with this move and you’ll have a leg up.”

If the rest of the world hadn’t fallen away from John, he would have noticed the sly stares and whispers shared between employees as the two men made each other's acquaintance. As it was, however, John paid no mind. There was only himself and Sherlock Holmes in the world, only the two of them at the beginning of something wonderful.

Silently, John tore himself away from that piercing gaze and elected to move his king away from Redbeard's queen, struggling to keep his hand steady as anticipation grew within him. He scratched another tally on his sheet then, placing the pen down and glancing back at Sherlock to gauge his reaction.

At first, there was no visible change in his expression and every hope he’d built up began a rapid descent.

“Brilliant,” he said in a low undertone. “See? Now I’m forced to attack some other way.” With long fingers, he moved his knight to a position that didn’t immediately make sense to John. Though to be fair, his mind wasn’t properly functioning.

A goofy smile was illuminating John’s face as he watched the man with fascination. Sherlock Holmes. Redbeard. His opponent. His saviour, really. He watched a small smile spread across full lips and John’s heart was leaping with joy upon seeing it.

“Right then,” John said, his voice jumping with giddy excitement. “Why Redbeard?”

“It’s a rather fascinating story- actually, not particularly.” John laughed, unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock. “Though I’d love to share it with you. Perhaps-” he swallowed, his expression faltering for the first time with what appeared to be nerves. “Perhaps over dinner? I know a great little Italian place.”

It wasn’t possible for John’s smile to widen, though it certainly was trying. “I’d love that. You free now?”

“I’ll lead the way!” proclaimed Sherlock with a skip in his step, striding out the door with long legs that left John half-running to keep up. He didn’t mind, of course. His heart was light, flying far above London in erratic patterns.

As the pair made their way toward whichever restaurant Sherlock Holmes was leading him to, John vowed to himself he would give the Grounds for Thought staff a one hundred dollar tip when his next paycheck arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love me a First Meeting AU. I hope you all enjoyed.  
> (John and I have one thing in common: we're not great at chess. I know the rules and I win occasionally, but there is a chance there is some technical error with my writing here. If there is, I beg forgiveness.)
> 
> As always, find me on Tumblr:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com  
> OR on Dreamwidth:  
> https://itsalwaysyou-jw.dreamwidth.org/
> 
> Thank you to everybody who is still reading. 11 more to go!


	14. A Beautiful Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, we've got it narrowed down to these two,” John sighed with resignation. He loved these movie nights but absolutely despised the selection process. “Miracle on 34th Street or Love Actually.”
> 
> “I think we should put White Christmas back in the mix,” grumbled Sherlock from over his shoulder. The breath of his words was warm on John's neck and his eyelids fluttered from the ecstasy of it.
> 
> He took in a sharp breath, the air centralizing his mind to the reality of their situation. “Just go sit on the couch!” He ordered, desperately needing Sherlock to take several steps away from him. “I'll pick which one we watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end note for an important update of Deck the Halls

“Alright, we've got it narrowed down to these two,” John sighed with resignation. He loved these movie nights but absolutely despised the selection process. “Miracle on 34th Street or Love Actually.”

“I think we should put White Christmas back in the mix,” grumbled Sherlock from over his shoulder. The breath of his words was warm on John's neck and his eyelids fluttered from the ecstasy of it.

He took in a sharp breath, the air centralizing his mind to the reality of their situation. “Just go sit on the couch!” He ordered, desperately needing Sherlock to take several steps away from him. “I'll pick which one we watch.”

Without too much thought, John shoved Love Actually into their DVD player. John remained kneeled before the telly just long enough to skip through the trailers and select play on the menu before rising to his feet.

“Lights?” He called across the room, already walking toward the switch.

“Of course,” came the responding shout from the couch.

Turning off the lights and grabbing the remote, John walked over to the couch and saw, in the dim light of opening sequence, that Sherlock was limiting his seating options. He sat criss-cross applesauce on the centre cushion, his knees spilling over the seam of the other two cushions.

John was frozen where he stood as he wondered what to do. “Do you think maybe you could move over?”

Sherlock hummed a noncommittal tone for a moment before dragging out a soft “No.”

Unbelievable. This man was insufferable. John settled into the right cushion, making a show of trying to get comfortable to shame his friend into moving over. It didn't work of course, but it made John feel better.

There was just one problem: John couldn't focus on the movie. Even sitting as close to the arm rest as possible, John's knee was still resting against a portion of Sherlock's leg. He was hyper-aware of the contact and his mind was racing with thoughts of grabbing his knee, throwing his legs over his hips to straddle him, or resting his head against the robe-covered shoulder. He wanted to touch him, to turn this one minuscule connection into something from his dreams.

Then, in what felt like one simple blink of an eye, John awoke with bleary eyes to the soft music of the Love Actually movie menu floating through the room. When had he fallen asleep? Where was-

Then the full weight of the situation crashed over him. John was slouched slightly from his previous upright position. His arm was extended around a curled form whose head was resting in the nook of his arm, nose pushed against his peck. John's own cheek was pressed against the top of a head of soft, luxurious curls. Curls John had dreamed of brushing, grabbing, pulling, touching in any capacity. Now he was pressed against it, sticky with proximity and elapsed time.

John inhaled with pleasure the scent of Sherlock. He noted with glee how Sherlock's hands were knitted together on his thigh. Although he was more than certain this was all a lovely dream, this was the happiest he'd ever been. He looked at his shushed nose against his chest, his lips slightly separated as breath went slowly in and out.

It was a beautiful sight.

For a long while, John simply stared at the innocent contact between them. He stared and stared until every bit of the scene was ingrained in his mind. He never wanted to forget how wonderful this felt, how beautiful Sherlock looked, or how Sherlock's hair smelled.

With a content smile pushed against the perfect head, John allowed his eyes to close once more and embraced the blanket of sleep that fell over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news, everyone. I fractured my pinky today. It's nearly impossible to type. Today's wasn't impacted because I already had it written BUT some of the next few chapters may either be late OR quite short. Please bear with me as I try to figure out how to proceed with this collection.  
> (Also, I couldn't edit much with my hand so take this chapter as-is haha)
> 
> I appreciate you all. Thank you for reading. <3


	15. Toy Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade can barely believe it. Sherlock Holmes: happy. With a new... friend?  
> He'll be damned if he lets Mycroft ruin that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Context: this begins mere moments after Sherlock and John leave the "Rache" crime scene at the beginning of ASiP.

“His name’s John Watson. He’s leaving now, heading north up-”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then why did you call?” hissed Lestrade, thoroughly chuffed. His cheek was sleek with sweat against the phone already and he didn’t know what Mycroft was playing at but he needed to get back to the crime scene.

“I wish for you to tell me what you’ve deduced about my brother in his presence,” drawled Mycroft as though it was a fact Lestrade should have already known from context.

Lestrade blinked several times and made a face, an expression of confusion lost in their current method of communication. “What are you on about, then?”

A sigh reverberated through his phone and Lestrade could  _ see _ his eyes rolling from whichever posh desk he was sitting behind. “My brother, Detective Inspector. I know all I need to about John Watson. What I need you to tell me how my  _ brother _ was around him.”

His hand wrapped dangerously tight around his mobile. He hated this man. Hated being pushed around by him. Hated how he just  _ expected _ things from him. God, what that family must be like for both of their children to be like this.

Sherlock wasn’t too bad, really. Insufferable, a total ass and all that- but bloody brilliant. Mycroft was much the same but without the sort of erratic energy that made Sherlock Holmes strangely endearing.

Then, unbidden, a very new memory floating to his mind. Mere moments ago, he had seen Sherlock Holmes... being kind. Sherlock Holmes... forcefully protective. Sherlock Holmes bringing somebody along for the first time in his life and then insisting he stay by his side.

Sherlock Holmes, being somehow less _..._ _Sherlock_ with his new… friend?

“Listen here, Mycroft,” he whispered with a venom that surprised himself. “Don’t you hurt him. You hear? There’s something about that Watson that is stirring something in your brother. Don’t you interfere. For once in your life, okay? Just let your brother work this out.”

A long silence. Lestrade checked his phone to ensure the call was still active. Finally, a response: “Interesting. I think I’ll give him a call, then.”

The buzzing sound of a dead line. He sighed with resignation, wondering if perhaps he should have been less openly protective of the soldier. He stared at his phone defeated, firmly shook his head to clear the thoughts, and strode back into the crime scene to focus on what seemed like a second job compared to taking care of the Holmes brothers.

* * *

Bloody hell. Was Sherlock Holmes...  _ laughing _ ? He wasn’t sure if he could fully believe it so he blinked, squinted, and gawked at the sight. Walking away from the site where he’d just caught a serial killer- the site where the cabbie had been shot and killed not moments ago, the site where police surrounded yet that Watson stood patiently outside the crime scene waiting for Sherlock- was Sherlock going God knows where with the man and- Good Lord, he  _ was _ laughing.

And living together? Lestrade was made suddenly, violently aware of how little he understood Sherlock.

As he scanned his environment for any other useful information to quench his curiosity, his eyes crossed over those of the elder Holmes next to a woman he didn't recognize. Steeling his resolve, he marched over to the man to give him an earful. If he was going to interfere with John Watson when he clearly made his brother happy- something he’d never imagined would be possible- he would have to go through him first.

“Oi, listen-” he called when he was within earshot and he saw rather than heard Mycroft dismiss the woman from his side.

“Please, Greg,” said Mycroft in a low, calm voice that comparatively made Lestrade sound loud and rambunctious. “There is no need to go on some ill-articulated tirade about how I need to leave my brother alone.”

“Oh.” He felt the hot air delate out of him, replaced by a burning in his cheeks that made him grateful for the cloak of darkness. He knew Mycroft was brilliant and all that, yet the accurate reading of his intention still caught him by surprise. “Right, then. So you’ll leave him alone, yeah?”

“Yes, I think so,” he said and his head turned to observe the street corner from which Sherlock and John had disappeared around. “Sherlock can keep his little toy soldier.”

Concern and something else he couldn’t place was plastered all over Mycroft's face. For the first time, it struck Lestrade as a fact that somehow, buried deep beneath, Mycroft was human too. God, what a day. Holmes brothers: somehow both superhuman and totally human.

“Are you- er-” he cleared his throat, as though it would somehow help the words wiggle free. “Are you alright?”

His head slowly left the street corner and turned instead to look at Lestrade with an intensity that left him feeling squeamish. “I am made aware with unbending certainty that I could not tear that Watson away from Sherlock now even if I wanted to.”

“And do you want to?”

“No.” He said the word the way a normal person might say “intestines” or “mouldy doughnuts.” “But I fear that perhaps I should.”

A bark of laughter escaped him and he made no effort to stop it. “Alright, drama queen. You know what you need? A drink.” Mycroft looked affronted but didn’t interrupt as Lestrade took a moment to look at the scene around them and gauge the situation. “Tell you what. I need to wrap up here. Why don’t you meet me at Bar 51 down the street in about an hour?”

“I don’t like drinks,” grumbled Mycroft in an undignified manner.

“And I don’t like you.” He shrugged, clapped Mycroft on the shoulder, and walked away without another word. A stream of breath escaped the man behind him, but no further protest came forward.

He wondered if Mycroft would truly come to get drinks. He wondered if he was in for a surprisingly pleasent evening. Mostly, however, he wondered if Sherlock Holmes was possibly, potentially, perhaps happy for once.

He hoped so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "SAMI! How did you type with your pinky broken?!"  
> Well, folks, it wasn't easy. This was easily the longest it has ever taken me to write. And it's PAINFUL. Lord, it's painful. But Johnlock demands to be written so here we are.  
> Also at one point "hisseed Lestraded, througouhgly chaffdd" was a sentence I typed, so there's that.
> 
> I've always been obsessed with what everyone must have been thinking when these two met. Ergo, this story.  
> (Also, yes, that is light Mystrade you see at the end there. Mycroft did show up because he's not used to people talking to him like that and he is intrigued."  
> (Also, that paragraph took me like five minutes to type lol)
> 
> Finally, if you (like me) are obsessed with the Lestrade/Sherlock friendship, go read another fic of mine called "Stupid With Love." I will always write Lestrade as a good friend. In that fic, Lestrade invites Sherlock out to drinks. They get drunk, Sherlock sings and dances to ABBA, and Sherlock rants about how much he loves John.
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> Tomorrow's prompt: Season's Greetings


	16. Season's Greetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God, this was not how he imagined spending Christmas Day. “Then they changed shoes!”
> 
> John was so close to losing it. His teeth were clashing against each other repeatedly with violent resolve after hours in this hellscape. The snow was past his knees, his shoes were soaked through with frozen moisture, and he was certain he could make it look like an accident if he killed Sherlock.
> 
> A groan that Sherlock probably didn’t think John would hear escaped the detective and his hands balled into tight fists in response. “They’re different gaits, too, John!”
> 
> “ _No, really Lestrade, Sherlock just slipped_ ,” he imagined saying to Greg when they found Sherlock’s body.
> 
> No, probably wouldn’t be believable.

“They can’t have just  _ disappeared _ !” he growled at the ground, hunched over in an effort to spot evidence of where his murderer went.

“I keep telling you!” John shouted across the barren field. “There is only one other set of footprints!”

He saw the distant silhouette of Sherlock kick angrily at the snow, a cloud of white vapour surrounding him momentarily until catching the wind or settling back down at his feet. “They’re different shoes!”

God, this was not how John imagined spending Christmas Day. “ _ Then they changed shoes _ !” John was so close to losing it. His teeth were clashing against each other repeatedly with violent resolve after hours outside in this hellscape. The snow was past his knees, his shoes were soaked through with frozen moisture, and he was certain he could make it look like an accident if he killed Sherlock.

A groan that Sherlock probably didn’t think John would hear escaped the detective and his hands balled into tight fists in response. “They’re different  _ gaits _ , too, John!”

“ _ No, really Lestrade, Sherlock just slipped _ ,” he imagined saying to Greg when they found Sherlock’s body.

No, probably wouldn’t be believable.

Sherlock’s back was facing him and he danced through the snow doing various reenactments of what their killer might have done in this field. The lapels of his jacket flapped behind him, swishing back and forth in the gentle wind and prompted by the winter air huffing around them.

An idea zapped into him at that moment, a cruel smile gliding across John’s face as he bent over to gather a large sum of snow between his already-freezing fingers and formed the mound into a compact ball.

“Hey, Sherlock!” he shouted, and the glee in his voice caused Sherlock to finally turn his attention to John. “Ho, ho ho!”

And he swung his right arm as forcefully as he could to project the snowball across dozens of yards to smack a confused and alarmed Sherlock Holmes square in the shoulder.

“Wha-” he shouted as he beheld the crumbled snow on his chest as though it were a substance he’d never beheld before. Laughing too hard to run, John did a strange sort of skip-walk closer to Sherlock to wipe the mess off and apologize for his childish behaviour. 

Well, he was going to do that until he heard Sherlock say, now only slightly louder than his normal voice but using a rather stern tone, “That was extremely childish. Don’t do it again, we’re on a case.”

John froze just like the moisture in his shoes. Sherlock turned on his heels and continued his strange motions that were, apparently, helping the case somehow. Did he… Did Sherlock just reprimand him for having fun on Christmas?

Burning with enough anger to melt the snow around him, John held his chattering jaw firm with angry tension. Sherlock was chasing a dead trail, dragging along this miserable adventure when he’d had very,  _ very _ different plans for today. Plans that involved being dry. Plans with alcohol and confessions and a lovely new scarf for Sherlock…

Fine.

He scooped up another mass of snow in his hands- more, even, than the first time- and took great care in forming it into a tight, dense ball.

“Fa la la la la,” John bellowed at the top his lungs in an off-kilter tune that he didn’t worry about. He flung it at Sherlock once more, the motion easier to aim with how much closer he now stood from him.

It hit him directly in the stomach after he turned to investigate the source John’s outburst. His mouth was a perfect “O” as it hit the breath out of him a bit and he needed to stagger backwards from the blow.

John was laughing once more, his whole body shaking with it. Perhaps this Christmas would be okay, after all.

“ _ John _ ,” he hissed with unadulterated fury. “I told you  _ not _ to do that again.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But here’s the thing,” he said with laughter still in his voice before bending over again to amass one more snow bullet to throw at his friend’s face, “I don’t do what you tell me to.”

His hands rubbed the snow until the outside was perfectly round, the white brilliance of the trees and sky practically reflected in the surface.

“If you throw that-”

“What?” John challenged. “If I throw that… what? Ruin my Christmas? Oh, wait, you already did that.”

Sherlock’s voice was dangerously calm, his face a mask of tension and anger that left a rebellious drive in John’s stomach. “Something quite like that, yes. If you throw that-”

But it was too late. “Season’s greetings!” John shouted while Sherlock was still talking before releasing the thing. John watched as Sherlock deduced what was happening, watched as Sherlock tried to spot the white ball in a white background in an attempt to duck or run, and watched as he observed it too late and it broke apart on Sherlock’s nose and shattered all across his face.

His response was nearly instant and John was frozen with surprise before his need for action hit him. Upon using one furious hand to wipe away the snow, Sherlock had begun barreling toward a still-laughing John at full speed.

“Oh shit,” John said, his legs tangling together slightly as he turned on the balls of his feet and began sprinting away from Sherlock as fast as he could.

It wasn’t enough. Sherlock, with his long legs and head start, caught up in a mere 13 seconds and with a wail of effort, tackled John into a fluffy pillow of snow that rapidly enveloped the pair of them in white walls. John managed to roll over onto his back and escape only a few feet before he was pinned in that spot under Sherlock’s well-placed knees and left hand that prevented movement without pain. His hips were locked between Sherlock's legs and he tried desperately to ignore the fact.

Panting, Sherlock used his right hand to gather an unformed bundle of snow in his hand and cruelly shoved the lump onto John’s stomach under his shirt to a chorus of high-pitched protests.

“Holy shit,” John panted, still tired from his short sprint and now also using the pants to help control his reaction to the snow melting down his sides. “Holy  _ fuck _ , Sherlock what the  _ fuck _ , holy shit-”

“How many times did you get me?” asked Sherlock rhetorically. “Thrice, was it?”

“Sherlock,” John warned with as much venom as he was able to inject into his voice. “Seriously, what the fuck, stop it.”

“Make me.”

Oh, this bad, bad man. With a sudden forceful upheaval of his hips, he used the temporary surprise of Sherlock to free one of his arms from beneath his knee and grabbed him unkindly by his collar. He was aware only for a moment of how warm his neck was on the knuckles of his hand before he pulled the collar down, lifted his own head slightly, and crashed his lips against the frozen lips of Sherlock Holmes.

It was manic. Their fiery clash of lips was rough, desperately aggressive, and still loaded with mutual anger. John wasn’t so much concerned with enjoying himself and more trying to quench an ancient thirst for the sensation of the man’s lips on his own. 

A magically hot tongue flicked John’s bottom lip, spreading a flash of warmth before cooling instantly in the air around them and underneath Sherlock’s snow-frozen lips. It was wholly intoxicating, his mind whirling as though he were laying down after having one too many drinks. He wanted more-  _ needed _ more.

He bit the perfect, distracting, gorgeous cupid bow that John found enchanting. The slight give of skin beneath his teeth was wonderful, the sound of weakness that escaped Sherlock was like a drug. He felt a glowing wave fill his veins, the sound was a solid ripple of pleasure for John.

Their kiss deepened, softened, heated John from the inside while the snow around them froze his back, his cheeks, his stomach, his fingers, his ears. He didn’t care. His other arm slid easily out of Sherlock's limp hand as he felt the urgent need to slip his fingers beneath the jacket to run across the fabric of his shirt.

John’s tongue wandered Sherlock’s mouth, trying desperately to memorize every nook and cranny of that perfectly sculpted man. Sherlock’s tongue brushed against his, each brush sending John spiralling with desire.

Sherlock’s hips lowered over John’s and his reaction was so instantaneous. Without a thought, he raised his hips upward to grind against Sherlock’s hips. His breath hitched and John smiled wide as Sherlock placed his cold hands on either side of John's face with forceful passion and kissed him deeply, John certain he would be lost forever in it. Their lips moved in perfect unison, forming together, coming apart briefly for the flick of a tongue or the shortest of breaths before rejoining in a union of bliss.

After ages of perfect snogging, the two of them finally acquired enough strength to kiss once- twice- three more times and pull apart. They heaved breaths in each other’s faces while their foreheads pressed together, eyes fluttering closed as the sounds and sensations of the world slowly came back into tune around them.

“Wow,” Sherlock whispered on a breath. It was the perfect sentiment. So succinct. So accurate. So brilliant.

“Yeah,” John agreed stupidly. “Wow.”

When the cold started to seep once more into his very bones, John asked timidly, “Do you think we could go home now? Warm up? Maybe open presents?”

Sherlock sighed but remained in place on top of John, his eyes closed. “But the killer…” He said it with little to no conviction. 

“We’ll get him, Sherlock. We will. But maybe we could just… continue tomorrow?”

“But-”

“We can snog some more at the flat,” he offered with a devious grin

Sherlock Holmes was on his feet so quickly, John laughed at how effective the motivation had been. “Okay!” Sherlock said, pulling him up impatiently by his hand. “Yes, let’s go home!”   


They were running hand-in-hand toward freedom, toward a cab, toward a glorious evening and John thought, with sudden clarity: God, this was not how he had imagined spending Christmas Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired by this lovely fanart:  
> https://sarahthecoat.tumblr.com/post/181158507000/notjustamumj-ireallyshouldbedrawing
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> Tomorrow's prompt: Warm and Cozy


	17. Warm and Cozy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, for one thing, they keep your feet warm,” John said distantly, flipping over the price tag of a tie that he thought Lestrade might enjoy.
> 
> “Regular socks do that too.”
> 
> “Yes,” said John through tight teeth. “But the fuzzy socks are warmer.”
> 
> “I cannot understand how foot temperature is enough a problem to warrant pointlessly thick, impractical socks being sold at such a popular store.”
> 
> “Look,” he said, exasperated. He turned on his heel and addressed a furiously perplexed Sherlock. “They’re cute, alright? People like cute things. Even if they’re not ‘practical.’ Sometimes ordinary people like to get things just because they're cute.”
> 
> For a long moment, Sherlock stared at the small bundle of fabric in his hands. The socks were ordained with smiling penguins, one tobogganing happily across a frozen lake. “And you,” Sherlock said softly, “think these are cute?”
> 
> “Of course they’re cute,” muttered John, embarrassed to say it any louder. “Look at them. They’re adorable.”
> 
> Sherlock stood upright quite suddenly, his jaw set in determination as he put the socks in their basket of goodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to and inspired by SosoHolmesWatson who commented how much they loved Sherlock in fuzzy socks in a previous chapter. A small headcanon they created is the basis for this ficlet. Thank you for the inspiration! :)

“John,” he said with a scrunched face, eyes centimetres away from a pair of exceedingly fluffy socks. “What are these monstrosities?”

Suppressing an eye roll, he responded with every bit of patience he possessed: “Socks, Sherlock. They're fuzzy socks.”

An insulted scoff. “What is their exact function?”

He should have known bringing Sherlock to the shopping centre to shop for gifts was a mistake. He had grown resentful that the gift tag was always signed from the both of them even though John was the only one who really did all the shopping. He’d dragged Sherlock from the flat whilst adamantly ignoring his protests and then- for some reason- got angry when he was being absolutely no help.

“Well, for one thing, they keep your feet warm,” John said distantly, flipping over the price tag of a tie that he thought Lestrade might enjoy.

“Regular socks do that too.”

“Yes,” said John through tight teeth. “But the fuzzy socks are warmer.”

“I cannot understand how foot temperature is enough a problem to warrant pointlessly thick, impractical socks being sold at such a popular store.”

“Look,” he said, exasperated. He turned on his heel and addressed a furiously perplexed Sherlock. “They’re cute, alright? People like cute things. Even if they’re not ‘practical.’ Sometimes ordinary people like to get things just because they're cute.”

For a long moment, Sherlock stared at the small bundle of fabric in his hands. The socks were ordained with smiling penguins, one tobogganing happily across a frozen lake. “And you,” Sherlock said softly, “think these are cute?”

“Of course they’re cute,” muttered John, embarrassed to say it any louder. “Look at them. They’re adorable.”

Sherlock stood upright quite suddenly, his jaw set in determination as he put the socks in their basket of goodies. Without another word, he strode toward a child’s section that John quite suspected would be the source of Anderson’s gift. He was pleased to be behind Sherlock because he smiled for a bit too long at the fuzzy socks sitting innocently on top of expensive cologne and a top-shelf umbrella.

* * *

It was a cold December night in 221B, the fire raging to provide warmth as John sipped a bit of Earl Grey to equalize the warmth of his outsides and insides. It was a calm, peaceful evening when Sherlock flopped in with muffled footsteps and settled in without a word into his seat. His eyes were far away, unfocused.

John loved these moments: Sherlock was unable to deduce the meaning of John’s staring because he, in fact, was paying no attention at all to his external surroundings. So he drank him in, the hollow of his collar, the buttons on his shirt pulling from the strain, his too-short pyjama shorts, and his-

John stared unabashedly at the feet, warm and cosy in fluffy fabric that hugged the long feet of his friend. His toes wiggled a bit as he thought and the result was a chorus of dancing penguins.

“Nice socks,” he said with a great smile.

“Hmm?” hummed Sherlock in response, his eyes blinking him back to reality as they refocused on John.

“Your socks,” John repeated, attempting not to get lost in those beautifully complex eyes. “I like them.”

Sherlock flushed red but his voice was stoic. “It’s an experiment,” he defended.

“Oh, really?” he asked with an arch of his eyebrow. “And what experiment would that be?”

“To see if these ridiculous penguin socks really do make one iota of a difference in foot warmth around the house.”

He genuinely needed to cover his mouth to hide the smile that broke out on his face when Sherlock said the word “penguin.” It came out strange, as though he’d never been taught how to properly say it. Perhaps he thought he’d gotten away with it. He’d let it slide, but it was so endearing that John needed to look away to get his thoughts together.

The two collapsed back into comfortable silence but that evening was not the last appearance of Sherlock’s new footwear. Two nights later, he was walking around the kitchen in them, the fabric sliding ever so slightly off of his feet so that there was a length of fabric at the end of his toes flopping around with each step. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but he looked rather like a penguin in them.

“Don’t look at me like that,” pouted Sherlock with attempted severity. “They’re comfortable. And can you believe that I can’t even feel the cold hardwood through them?”

“I’m glad you like them,” John responded with no judgement. He meant it. There was something deep within his heart that glowed with delight at the sight of Sherlock enjoying such a mundane thing as _fuzzy socks_.

One of the penguin's stomachs was already smeared with dark residue and an idea hatched in John’s mind, blooming into a full-blown plot by the end of that day.

* * *

“Okay,” he said into the silence following one of Sherlock’s gorgeous violin renditions of We Three Kings. “Don’t get mad.”

His eyes narrowed, reading guilt all over John’s face. “What did you do?”

John exhaled, ready to fight this battle. “I have a present for you.”

“John, what have I told you? Presents between people as close as you and I are unnecessary shows of-”

“Oh, put a sock in it!” bellowed John over the man who would surely go on for ages without interruption. “It cost nearly nothing and it’s not just from me. It’s your present from everybody- Molly, Mycroft, your parents, Greg-”

“Who?”

“Lestrade, you ass.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, we all spent less than ten pounds each because we _care_ about you and we thought this would make you _happy_ , okay? So just take it.”

He shoved an unwrapped shoebox he had hidden beneath his chair into the unwilling hands of Sherlock and watched with falsely angry eyes until he reluctantly dropped his eyes to the box and opened it with hesitation.

His eyes remained glued to the contents for a long while, his whole body freezing as it was prone to do when he was truly, wholly shocked.

“Are these-” he started with a hoarse voice.

“Yes.”

“And they’re for-”

“Yes, they’re for you.”

He was clearly, visibly fighting against a smile. John wondered how much he suppressed active emotion, wondered why he wouldn’t allow even this small happiness. Gingerly, he extracted a thick, woollen pair of socks that his mom had chosen for him. It was designed with pointed tops to remble cat ears, the neck of the sock bearing the eyes, nose, and whiskers of a cat while the whole foot was decorated with pawprints. His eyes scanned the others: the fox pair, the pair with doughnuts, the mix-matched sort that portrayed Marvel heroes, and others. All of them were fuzzy, all of them were adorable.

“Did you-” his voice broke just slightly and he cleared his throat to try again. “Did you tell all these people that I liked fuzzy socks?”

“No, of course not. I told them they were for me.” This wasn't _exactly_ true, but it was true enough to say without guilt.

Sherlock took one last look at the nearly dozen socks he’d been gifted before closing the lid and placing the box on the table beside his seat. He moved toward John and he vaguely wondered if he should duck, move, or even run.

Before he could do any of those things, Sherlock was wrapped around him. One of his arms was wound around his back while the other wrapped tightly around his waist. John was temporarily frozen, flushing as he felt the skin of his cheek push against his neck before the realization sufficiently hit him: Sherlock was hugging him.

Slowly, carefully, ever so gently, John lifted his arms to reciprocate. He felt the way Sherlock’s skin was soft beneath his fingers, felt the warmth seeping from beneath his clothing. It was intoxicating, unexpected, and addicting. John wished he could pause the world and live in that one moment for eternity.

Perhaps he did. It felt ages that he was holding Sherlock Holmes in his arms until he pulled away and John felt the warmth evacuate the world around him. Suddenly, what had felt ages seemed mere milliseconds.

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered, still so close to John yet so far from where he should be. “I love them.”

“You’re welcome.” His voice wavered from desire- or was it emotion? It was too difficult to sort out in this series of events that left his head spinning. This sequence of moments that were already fading away into the past was too much to process.

“So which ones did you get me?” asked Sherlock, a sudden burst of joyous energy suddenly injected into his voice. He was wide-eyed with anticipation and John’s heart was quite sore indeed.

“The game is on, Sherlock,” he responded mischievously. “Let’s see if you can deduce which pair is from me.”

Sherlock literally leapt with joy at the suggestion, whirling on the spot to pluck the box from where it sat. John watched with love in his heart. He was light with it, his blood singing with pure adoration. This, right here, was enough. The two of them, bickering with familiarity at times and coming together with complete joy and affection at other times. It was an intimacy John couldn’t describe.

But he _could_ describe how charming Sherlock was as he picked each pair up and attempted to deduce who bought them for him before getting most of them wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone catch the classic "peng-wing" reference?  
> (Benedict can't say "penguin" and it's equally hilarious and adorable.)  
> (Also, yes, the Marvel socks have Doctor Strange.)
> 
> Did you know England doesn't use the term "mall"? Neither did I until I wrote this chapter. Also, it's only "cozy" in America, but "cosy" everywhere else. The more you know! I'll keep the chapter title the same as the American spelling since it's the prompt name, but it's properly spelt in the fic.  
> (Source: random websites on the Internet. I could easily be wrong about this, feel free to correct me.)
> 
> As always, find me on Tumblr:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com  
> OR on Dreamwidth:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.dreamwidth.org/
> 
> Only seven more! Thank you for reading. <3


	18. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a quiet, lovely day in 221B as Sherlock and John celebrate their anniversary.
> 
> _“Do you-” John hesitated, his head ducking to try to get a read on Sherlock’s reaction. “Do you like it?”_
> 
> _Ah. His silence was being mistaken for displeasure. He recalled when these misinterpretations absolutely baffled him. He recalled viewing John’s illegitimate conclusions as stupidity. He knew better now. He knew how John’s insecurity, unique worldview, and trauma from emotional abuse played into how he saw the actions of those around him._
> 
> _“No, I love it,” he responded, attempting to pour every bit of sincerity he was capable of into the words. He needed John to understand. So he stopped trying to hide his emotions, allowed the wall to crumble and looked up at his husband with tears brimming in his eyes. John’s face was blurry with it but he made no effort to focus the image. “I mean it, John. I love it. It’s perfect, it’s gorgeous, it’s absolutely wonderful.”_

He woke him up with the sun, pressing light kisses along his forehead, his temple, the beginning of his hairline by his shaved sideburns.

He stirred with a content smile when he registered the kisses so he whispered: “Good morning, my handsome man.”

They rose together after a series of activities suited for two men on the morning of their anniversary. John was giddy, his walk closer to a skip than his trademark march. Sherlock dropped back, fortunate to watch John’s joy radiate to the world around him.

Little Watson bound from her room (John’s old one) when the aroma of Sherlock’s pancakes reached her small nose. The patter of her feet exposed her eagerness, her face red with excitement before her eyes even fell upon Sherlock or John.

“Papa!” she screamed, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she ran to cling to one of his legs. At eight years old, she was objectively the cutest child on this planet. Worlds would align for her, wars end for her, the whole planet would bend to her will. Who was Sherlock to resist her charm? “Happy anniversary!”

“Thank you, Watson,” he said with a break in his voice. He never thought he’d be so happy. “Go sit down at the table, I’m making your  _ favourite _ today.”

“Banana pancakes with strawberry syrup?”

“Very good deduction.” He winked and she beamed at him.

When John joined them after his shower, Sherlock had one of those moments where the whole world froze around him and he realized with startling clarity: John was his husband. John Watson was actually his husband. If he so desired, he could go place an innocuous kiss on the man right then.

So he did. John smiled, Sherlock was overwhelmed, and Rosie pretended to barf.

Breakfast was usually chaos: one or all of them rushing and demanding more than their fair share of food. They were a fussy lot with only Little Watson having a valid reason to be: she was a child. Not today, however. Today there was nothing to do: no cases, no school, no work, nothing. All there was to do was enjoy their day and celebrate their shared love.

“Rosie,” John said during a lull in conversation with his mouth full of blueberry pancakes that Sherlock had  _ insisted _ he’d added extra love to. “Why don’t you go get Papa’s present?”

“Okay!” And she was off to her room, undoubtedly using the floorboard John used to use to hide his gifts for Sherlock.

“A present?” Sherlock asked with genuine surprise. It was a hard feat, but John managed it occasionally. Especially since Sherlock had vowed to start respecting his privacy a bit more. Just a  _ bit _ , though.

“From Rosie, of course,” he said as though it were nothing.

She came bounding in with a poorly wrapped thin square. He knew immediately what lay within but he feigned total surprise when he extracted a photo frame with a picture of the three of them smiling within its borders.

“It’s beautiful!” he proclaimed with sincerity because it truly was. He swept her in his arms, held her close, and recounted to her how much he loved her. She laughed and asked him if he really did like it and he assured her that he did.

It was a perfect morning. 

* * *

John extended his arm with a hesitation Sherlock couldn’t understand. Was he nervous? The box in his hands was neither small nor notably large. The wrapping was no indication of what was inside for the thing was clearly in a box. It could have been anything.

They sat on the ground across from one another as Little Watson sat silently on the couch. They’d asked her to leave but she had simply begged and begged to stay with them so they elected to allow it. She would be going with Molly at 1500 anyhow. She could join the celebration for now.

Sherlock grabbed it from John’s grip and wondered if he should be nervous as well. His fingers slide beneath the tape, an old habit he had from his childhood. He used to be addicted to the concept of preservation- of things lasting past their purpose. He’d never been useful past his deductions. He’d never been kept around past his intelligence. He’d been discarded and disregarded and he hated giving anything else the same treatment.

As the wrapping fell apart in a single unfolded sheet on the floor, Sherlock scanned the box for any additional hints of its contents. Brown box, no writing, no shipping label.

“No use, my love,” John said knowingly. “I was particularly careful. If you want to know what is in there, you’ll need to open it.”

Clever man.

Sherlock found the notches of the box and extracted a gorgeous, handmade wooden clock. Across the face was written:

_ Enough time finding each other _

_ Enough time befriending each other _

_ Now we have all the time in the world to love each other _

_ Sherlock & John Holmes-Watson _

_ 29 January 2019 _

His eyes burned with a familiar prick of emotion. He held the clock gingerly, the second hand moving in a soft motion of noise that hadn’t protruded the barrier of the box it was in. It ticked with a soothing consistency and Sherlock focused on it with an intensity he hoped would take away the desire to cry at the beautiful message.

_ All the time in the world _ .

Their wedding date etched into it.

He couldn’t fathom how he’d gotten so lucky. He never,  _ ever _ thought he would be here.

Little Watson craned her neck from where they asked her to sit on the couch. “It’s a clock,” she observed.

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock said with an effort to hide his emotion, head hung as he continued to stare at it in his lap.

“Do you-” John hesitated, his head ducking to try to get a read on Sherlock’s reaction. “Do you like it?”

Ah. His silence was being mistaken for displeasure. He recalled when these misinterpretations absolutely baffled him. He recalled viewing John’s illegitimate conclusions as stupidity. He knew better now. He knew how John’s insecurity, unique worldview, and trauma from emotional abuse played into how he saw the actions of those around him.

“No, I  _ love _ it,” he responded, attempting to pour every bit of sincerity he was capable of into the words. He needed John to understand. So he stopped trying to hide his emotions, allowed the wall to crumble and looked up at his husband with tears brimming in his eyes. John’s face was blurry with it but he made no effort to focus the image. “I mean it, John. I love it. It’s perfect, it’s gorgeous, it’s absolutely wonderful.”

He saw John’s figure move closer to wipe away a tear that had elected to rebelliously fall down the expanse of his cheek. “I love you,” he says softly, his voice oozing a sense of love and kindness that made Sherlock’s eyes burn once more.

“Your turn,” Sherlock said quickly. If he didn’t stop now, Little Watson was going to see him absolutely crumble into fits of hysteria and she wasn’t old enough to understand why. She wouldn’t see a man who was denied love his whole life suddenly receiving a love he didn’t always believe he didn’t deserve. She wouldn’t see a man who had given up on living a happy life who was now the happiest man in the world. All she would see was her Papa crying over a clock.

Sherlock reached around to grab an immaculately wrapped gift and gave it to John’s open hands. John opened it with haste indicative of his years in service, an urgency to do everything  _ now _ before he couldn’t. The paper fell away in shreds to reveal a simple board. The wood was finished, shining, and carved with the message:

_ It’s always you. _

_ John Watson, you keep me right. _

_ 29 January 2010 _

He watched as John’s eyes scanned the words once-twice-thrice before settling on the date at the bottom with perhaps more moisture than was there before he opened it.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered, eyes glued to the date. “It’s the day we met.”

“I’ll give you three guesses where the wood is from,” Sherlock said, eager to share the fact.

John picked it up, examined it, and squinted at every corner and angle. “Is it… something from our wedding?”

Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing with the motion, and John examined it once more. “It is something from a case?”

“Warmer.”

“From our first case?”

Sherlock actually clapped with joy and he saw Rosie’s eyes light up in the corner of his eyes as well. “That is a board from the stairs of that first crime scene. What you call the ‘Study in Pink.’”

John’s mouth was hard, his eyes unmoving. Sherlock knew without needing to ask that John was holding onto his stoicism to prevent an overt display of emotion in front of his daughter. He would express himself later, in private, where Sherlock wouldn’t judge him.

There were so many things Sherlock understood about John now. The simple habit of honest communication had altered their relationship completely.

“Thank you, my love,” John said with a straight voice. “This is stunning. I think we’ll put it above our bed, yeah?”

Sherlock smiled. “Yeah, that would be perfect.”

The men rose, their gifts on the floor for the time being, and embraced one another for a long moment. When they tore apart, their heads turned together to see Rosie, conveniently staring at her hands. She sensed their gaze, however, and looked back at them, cheeks red.

“Can we play Cluedo?” she asked with excitement. "Together?"

“Yeah, John, can we play Cluedo?” Sherlock chimed in.

John sighed with only half of his heart in it. “I guess I'm outnumbered. I suppose we can.”

The three played animatedly, shouting over one another when the game got going. Rosie laughed at her Daddy when he bellowed the rules for the hundredth time to Papa.

It was a perfect afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The traditional fifth-year anniversary gift is "wood." There is surely a sexual fic somewhere in there but this is rated T.  
> I rarely write fics that are compliant with S4, but here we are!
> 
> If I may be so bold as to say so, I love this chapter. Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> (Temporary note: I did not have enough time before work to fully edit this but I need to post it now. Please excuse any minor misspellings and such. I will remove this note when I have had a chance to edit fully. Thank you.)


	19. Silent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He strained his ears for any audible hint that the events of today were keeping Sherlock up, but it was a silent night at 221B. He imagined he could hear the snowflakes hit his bedroom window one by one, building on top of other, more resilient snowflakes. He imagined hearing footsteps pacing in tight circles, a physical manifestation that somehow helped Sherlock process the frantic activity of his own mind. He imagined a crackling fire being built in the sitting room, a source of warmth to accompany Sherlock as he sat awake.
> 
> But it was a silent night at 221B.
> 
> No. No, it wasn’t okay. Without realizing he’d made the decision, he was on his feet and throwing open his bedroom door. He felt as though he were floating toward his destination rather than stomping like a maniac in a manner that would surely offend the floorboards. Rounding the corner with his eyes on the prize, he spotted the light come to life under the doorway and a wave of newfound anger mounted in him. So Sherlock was awake. The brilliant, clever man definitely knew what this was about, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uuuUUUUUUGGHHH this chapter is definitely one of those pieces I wish didn't have to be a one-shot. I have a WHOLE backstory to this that I couldn't get around to including. Perhaps one day I will write a separate prequel to this.

John's eyes were wide in the darkness, his pupils seeking to drink in details of his ceiling they couldn't possibly observe. Lying down in a futile attempt to embrace sleep, the room was frozen around him while his mind spun out of control. Every few minutes, he would abruptly throw his mind from its train of thought out of fear.

“ _No, go to sleep,_ ” he ordered himself, forcing his eyes closed. It felt like sandpaper and keeping them closed felt unnatural, uncomfortable. With an angry huff of air, his eyes snapped open once more and his hands worked in knots over his stomach.

He strained his ears for any audible hint that the events of today were keeping Sherlock up, but it was a silent night at 221B. He imagined he could hear the snowflakes hit his bedroom window one by one, building on top of other, more resilient snowflakes. He imagined hearing footsteps pacing in tight circles, a physical manifestation that somehow helped Sherlock process the frantic activity of his own mind. He imagined a crackling fire being built in the sitting room, a source of warmth to accompany Sherlock as he sat awake.

But it was a silent night at 221B.

No. No, it wasn’t okay. Without realizing he’d made the decision, he was on his feet and throwing open his bedroom door. He felt as though he were floating toward his destination rather than stomping like a maniac in a manner that would surely offend the floorboards. Rounding the corner with his eyes on the prize, he spotted the light come to life under the doorway and a wave of newfound anger mounted in him. So Sherlock _was_ awake. The brilliant, clever man definitely knew what this was about, too.

That is how he came to storm in without knocking to see his friend standing strangely in the centre of his room, arms behind his back, chin jutted out expectantly in his nightgown. Hand still on the doorknob and eyes manically attempting to adjust to the sudden light of the room, his words scrambled out as though they were desperate for life.

“Why did you kiss me?”

The shouted accusatory question hung in the air, desperate for a home, a realization, an explanation. Sherlock showed no reaction, not even the slight tightening of his eyes, the drumming of his fingers, or a nervous swallow.

“I told you, John." His words were cold and distant. Mechanical. “There was mistletoe. We were undercover, it needed to look convincing.”

Ah, this bullshit.

“That’s bullshit,” he spat, furious that he would deflect with such poor execution.

“It is not!”

“It was holly!” roared John with complete and utter bewilderment at just how stupid Sherlock thought he was. “Even _I_ know it was holly! It wasn’t even hanging above us! God, Sherlock, it was sitting on the table across the room. It was going to be used for decoration, it wasn’t even supposed to _look_ like mistletoe.”

It was with great pleasure that John observed the most subtle of flushes overwhelm Sherlock’s cheeks. “What is your point?”

John’s fingernails were hurting his palms from prolonged digging. “My point?” He suppressed the urge to scream into his hands. He was so tired of this dance. So incredibly tired. “My _point_ is that I want to know why you did it. It certainly wasn’t because of mistletoe and it certainly wasn’t because anybody was expecting it. I want to know why you did it and I want the truth.”

But Sherlock was still frozen in his bizarrely formal stance, staring at John down his nose as though he were missing some blindly obvious fact that explained everything.

“John, when we need to pretend to be a couple, things like spontaneous physical contact are expected to maintain-”

A strangled, sustained groan pulled itself from John’s very soul. Excuses.

It was a frequent occurrence that Sherlock and John needed to pretend to be a couple. John always told himself that it was okay because it was always “for a case.” But the things they did “for a case” left a glorious feeling in the pit of John’s stomach.

That one unseasonably cold morning in April when the clouds were heavy but didn’t drop their moisture where Sherlock paraded all over London hand-in-hand with John because some villain needed to believe they were together. They’d gone flower picking, their hands warm in each other's grip. John had looked at Sherlock with all the love and adoration he’d always wanted to show on his face. Sherlock put a flower behind his ear and the light brush of fingertips along his face haunted him later that night. Apparently, their act had worked because Sherlock reported that some scout had reported back to the head criminal that they two were dating.

Then several months later, the two were at a nightclub when Sherlock whispered that they needed to dance provocatively in order to blend in. John pretended to treat the matter as a military mission, nothing more or less than a necessary act to win the battle. But for weeks after, the memory came to him in vivid detail in the shower.

And now this. A kiss. A proper, intoxicating, passionate, wildly inhibited kiss. But not really. It was for a case.

“Okay,” said John with astonishing bitterness. “You know what, Sherlock? Fuck that. No more pretending to be a couple for a case. I can’t do it. I won’t do it.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock with poorly-controlled sourness. The word was clipped, curt with an emotion John couldn’t pretend to understand. It seemed an eternity that they stood there in silence, the both of them with every defence up and unable to move forward.

Sherlock was the first to break the silence, his eyes still drilling into John with insane precision. “No more fake-dating for cases. No more kissing. Happy?”

Several words were fighting to escape him all at once and he couldn’t even begin to decide which one should win. He wanted to say “Fine” or “No” or “Yes” or “Thank you” or “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Instead, the one thing he meant to keep to himself came out. He regretted them even as he said them: “No. The kissing was- the kissing is alright. I don’t mind. Just- just don’t _use_ me, Sherlock. You can’t just _kiss_ me and then clear yourself of the repercussions by saying it was “for a case.” You can either kiss me or you can not kiss me. You can’t do both.”

There. The truth. The gravity of it echoed in his head in endless circles, swirling down his mind in loops that made his stomach lurch.

Yet apparently the truth was all it took to break Sherlock of his stoic demeanour. His jaw slackened, his arms suddenly unaware of what to do, falling to his sides with drumming fingers. His head cocked to one side, eyes wide with analysis that made John feel naked, exposed.

“So the kissing,” said Sherlock slowly- so slowly, “was… alright?”

John opened his mouth to respond but didn’t fully trust himself not to backpedal. Instead, he closed his mouth and gave a curt, professional nod.

“The only portion you didn’t care for was my excuse.”

Nod.

“But I may kiss you again?”

Nod.

Sherlock Holmes moved like a man dying of thirst presented with a glass of crystal clear water. They were together, hands frantic across each other’s bodies as their mouths moved in clumsy unison, each of them striving to satisfy a carnal need deep within them. John’s head was swimming in thoughts of Sherlock Holmes, certain that absolutely everybody on Baker Street, everybody in London, everybody on the planet would hear the world as he knew it crumbling around him.

As their kiss deepened, lengthened, changed, adapted, and softened, John was only distantly realizing that all this time, all these years, in all his anguish, Sherlock had wanted him as desperately as he’d wanted Sherlock.

But suddenly, the years spent in silence didn’t seem to matter. Because John was holding Sherlock close, the two were sharing an intimacy John had only ever dreamed of, and they’d gotten here in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in a prequel to this, I can inform you if/when I post one. Just let me know if you're interested. :)  
> Also, for this chapter, I was practising withholding information from the reader that the POV character already knows to build suspense and curiosity. Hope it worked! I plan on including a fair amount of it in my next novel.
> 
> Interested in the difference between holly and mistletoe? Here you are:  
> https://66.media.tumblr.com/4c110276e55d2f0001d13354b661206a/tumblr_ohkwy4m96L1ttig8go2_r1_1280.jpg
> 
> As always, find me on Tumblr:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com  
> OR on Dreamwidth:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.dreamwidth.org
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> Tomorrow's prompt: Home


	20. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was eight years old when he first heard that there was a difference between a house and a home. He'd never thought anything of it, the seemingly trivial distinction. Yet in his fourth year, his English teacher spoke of how a house is a place where you live and a home is a place where you belong.
> 
> He deliberated the concept, staring with wonder out his bedroom window. The leaves were turning red, several weak leaves floating along the breeze to a new home. Did he have one? A place where he felt comfortable, a sense of belonging, or familiarity?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't late, it's before midnight my time! Curse Seattle for being so far behind my readers' timezones.
> 
> Mads_Ansley is a wonderful author who is always SO supportive of my endeavours on Dreamwidth so this chapter is dedicated to her. Go read her stuff! She's also doing this advent calendar ficlet challenge.  
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mads_Ansley
> 
> TW: suicidal thoughts

Sherlock was eight years old when he first heard that there was a difference between a house and a home. He'd never thought anything of it, the seemingly trivial distinction. Yet in his fourth year, his English teacher spoke of how a house is a place where you live and a home is a place where you belong.

He deliberated the concept, staring with wonder out his bedroom window. The leaves were turning red, several weak leaves floating along the breeze to a new home. Did he have one? A place where he felt comfortable, a sense of belonging, or familiarity?

Shaking his head of the philosophical nonsense, he reminded himself that his home was here, with his family. Yet that evening, Mycroft reprimanded him for his “childish” experiment with the soil and his parents asked timidly if he’d made any new friends recently. He wasn’t comfortable. He didn’t belong. He wasn’t home.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was 15 when he caught the eye of a rather handsome boy. Zane Hope was only particularly extraordinary in two ways: he was Sherlock’s first crush and, more importantly, he was kind to him.

It was a revolutionary sort of feeling when Zane told him that his wildflower painting in art was beautiful. Sherlock flushed a brilliant shade of maroon and stuttered out a thank you, desperate to drown in his beautiful blue eyes. When Zane asked to borrow a pencil in geometry, he kept a straight face but handed him three.

“I have extras,” he muttered before huddling over his paper once more but not retaining a single letter on the page.

When Zane started regularly speaking to him, even smiling at him as they passed each other in the hallways, Sherlock was terrified. What if Zane liked him? There could be no allowance for weakness in this place that could crumble apart at even the implication of his feelings for a boy. Even worse, what if Zane _didn’t_ like him? How much more painful to hope and suffer than to shut down hope altogether.

“Are you going to the dance next weekend?” asked Zane in a soft voice before one of their classes.

“No,” said Sherlock curtly. His head was down, eyes risking only side glances toward the handsome boy. “The whole ordeal is foolish. I’m staying home.”

But he wouldn’t. He’d stay at his house, wishing it felt like a home.

“Oh,” said Zane, the syllable loaded with disappointment. Sherlock wouldn’t allow himself to look up and deduce whether or not he was.

* * *

At 21, Sherlock Holmes vowed he would never succumb to the cruel temptation of emotion ever again. Never again would he foolishly hope that somebody might like him- even tolerate him. It was too painful.

His whole life, he couldn’t seem to understand _why_ people didn’t like him.

“It’s because they’re _ordinary_ , Sherlock,” drawled Mycroft when Sherlock was twelve and desperate to understand why he’d never had even one friend. “We’re brilliant, you and I. Everybody else only sees what the want to see but you and I see the truth.”

“It’s lonely being brilliant,” confessed Sherlock in a whisper, the rarity of that truth surprising even Sherlock.

Mycroft rolled his eyes dramatically. “Don’t be so _sentimental_ , Sherlock. It benefits nobody.”

So he’d never spoken of his loneliness again. His 19-year-old big brother had to know something Sherlock didn’t.

… Right?

But the more people disliked him for being so brilliant, the more he needed to control their dislike. He tried holding it in, but it oozed from him without control. He couldn’t stop it- the deductions. They were part of him, arriving to betray him because he sincerely couldn’t tell what was common sense and what was a “deduction.”

He’d ask someone how their sleepover was and they would get angry because suddenly their girlfriend was screaming questions at them. He would make small talk and inquire about a woman’s recent engagement but she would burst into tears, calling him a jerk.

It was so much easier to lean into it. Be “that asshole” who makes deductions. That “freak” who nobody likes. That way, he controlled it. That way, he would never be disappointed by the fact that he couldn’t obtain a friend for the life of him.

Sitting next to him in the graduation hall was a pretty woman with straight brown hair. She clearly didn’t know him because her smile turned to him without provocation. “Are you nervous?” she asked brightly. “I’m kind of nervous,” she continued without waiting for an answer.

Sherlock grunted noncommittally, hoping she might just shut up.

She didn’t. “I mean, it’s kinda sad. This place has been home for, like, four whole years.”

But it was never home and Sherlock is suddenly distraught with sorrow. He’d never fit in here. Never belonged anywhere. 

“I just can’t imagine-”

“Tell me,” said Sherlock quietly, focusing his eyes with great intent upon her, hoping the intensity of his gaze would shock her as much as his deduction. “Do you tell people it was home for four years because you’re ashamed that it took you six years to finish uni?”

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was 32 and life was boring. Worse, even, life didn’t feel worth living. He was blown along life’s swirling breeze in pointless motions; always moving but never settling anywhere.

Mike Stamford, a stout teacher at St. Bart’s who was incessantly kind to Sherlock despite how much he deduces the man’s life, habits, and relationships, asked him how he was doing. Sherlock bit back the overwhelming desire to tell him the truth.

“Well, you see Mike, I feel as though I’m on a train,” he wanted to say. “I’m on a train that is speeding along a track with only one destination. At the end of this track is a solid brick wall that will result in my death. Knowing this, I wonder if I might as well just jump off. Control my fate. See, so long as I’m on the train, I will simply live in anticipation for the moment my fate arrives. I’m on this train alone. I have no friends, nobody who will even attempt to stop my jumping. Nobody will mourn me, nobody will care.”

Instead, he says, “Ready to pull my hair out trying to pull together money for the rent.”

“Devil of a thing, innit?” responds Mike with a good-natured laugh. “Why not get a flatmate?”

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes not out of sincerity, but to add to his dramatic reaction. “Who’d want _me_ as a flatmate?”

Mike gave the thought serious consideration, which caught him by surprise. Why _did_ Mike treat him so warmly? He briefly considered being kinder to the man before mentally shaking himself back to sense and reminding himself that sentiment was no benefit to him.

“I can’t think of anybody looking for one in London, mate. But tell you what; I’ll keep my eyes out.”

“I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for,” said Sherlock dejectedly, hoping his utter hopelessness came across as cold distance.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” he promised.

* * *

There was a time when 221B had felt so much like home, Sherlock could cry from the sense of belonging he’d felt there. That feeling was gone for a while. Namely, when John wasn’t there. His marriage. Their fallout.

But John was back- for good- and Sherlock Holmes was 42 when he could say with unfaltering certainty that he did, finally, after 34 years spent searching, have a home.

Comfort. A sense of belonging. Familiarity.

He’d heard a term once that stumped him. “Domestic bliss.” He hadn’t understood it and therefore he dismissed it as nonsense. He understood now. He understood, also, that he hadn’t ever lacked understanding of the term. Rather, he’d been terrified that he would never experience it; heartbroken that he never had. It was easier to reject its existence than accept that it was a sort of intimacy he would never achieve.

This quiet night in 221B with John was domestic bliss. The two of them, sharing their lives and space was domestic bliss. Sherlock making John’s tea exactly the way he wanted without John needed to ask was domestic bliss. John pressing his lips lightly onto his forehead before turning in every night was domestic bliss.

He was home.

* * *

Sherlock is 72 years old and Baker Street is long gone. Now he spends his days tending to a wonderful array of bumblebees, drinking in every passing moment with a content pleasure that fills his heart with delight. Beside him, always beside him, is John Watson wearing an oversized sweater that doesn’t fit his shrinking frame. John has a smile that he doesn’t know is there. It’s the sort of smile that comes from a blissful soul.

As he stares at his beautiful, perfect, thoughtful, wonderful, dreamy, flawless, strong husband, a bumblebee lands unassuming on his shoulder, the buzz of it ringing in his ears. The wind is rustling just enough to blow his curls aside, the scent of this great valley blessing his nose with the delicate scent of lavender.

In the breeze, a lonely leaf is torn from its tree branch and floats away, the beginning of a long journey it will endure until it settles into a new home. It occurs to Sherlock with vivid clarity that it is the nature of the life to float aimlessly, a simple act of treading water before finding one’s home.

221B Baker Street wasn’t his home. It never was. His home was, is, and always will be John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, pulling my hair out because I had writer's block for this chapter: I'm just going to write "221B Baker Street" and that's going to be the whole chapter.
> 
> I cried writing this. It's been a rough week, y'all.
> 
> As of last two nights ago, Deck the Halls is officially my work with:  
> -the most kudos  
> -the most comments  
> -the most subscriptions  
> -the most hits  
> -the most bookmarks
> 
> Hooray! Thank you, thank you, thank you to EVERYONE! <3


	21. Hopes and Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the 30th of January 2010 and Sherlock has three fears:  
> 1\. John Watson will expose him for who he really is.  
> 2\. Sherlock’s established set of values will not align with his fierce (albeit sudden) desire to protect John Watson at all costs.  
> 3\. He is going to fall in desperately in love with John Watson.
> 
> It is the 30th of January 2020 and John has three hopes:  
> 1\. Perhaps, after all these years, he understands who Sherlock Holmes really is.  
> 2\. Sherlock Holmes' once rigid worldview and values have softened and morphed into something more recognizably suitable for domesticity.  
> 3\. Sherlock Holmes is in love with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Busy day today! Have a short little fluffy piece.
> 
> OMG! Sorry to anybody who saw my initial posting of this chapter. That was a mistake. Fixed now!

It is the 30th of January 2010 and Sherlock has three fears:

  1. John Watson will expose him for who he really is.
  2. Sherlock’s established set of values will not align with his fierce (albeit sudden) desire to protect John Watson at all costs.
  3. He is going to fall in desperately in love with John Watson.



**2010**

John weighs him down. John is too slow. John can’t keep up.

These are excuses Sherlock uses- and very nearly believes- to explain to himself why he insists on leaving John behind. The truth, of course, is that he cannot bear the idea that John might get hurt.

He hates it- the  _ softness _ of it all.

It was the smallest of indications that alerted Sherlock to the changing of the tides.

He recalls with clarity the time John had come home in a fuss because he’d fought with a pin machine. The man was all tension and anger; absurdity at its peak. Yet Sherlock looked upon him with a soft admiration he couldn’t keep off of his face nor shake from his heart.

With every last cell of his physical being, he wished he could regard John with as much spite and indifference as he did with everybody else. The simple fact of the matter was that Sherlock didn’t have it in him.

Without further evidence, he isn’t sure what this means. A friend, perhaps?

It didn’t seem to suit the model of friendship, this arrangement with John. For a while, Sherlock assumes they’re friends but sees the way John glares at him, the way he shouts at him, the way he can barely seem to tolerate his presence and he knows they aren’t friends.

Whatever they are, not only does he always desire to spend time with him during the day, but he finds himself hoping that he is lucky enough spend every day with him for the rest of his days.

It is the 30th of January 2020 and John has three hopes:

  1. Perhaps, after all these years, he understands who Sherlock Holmes really is.
  2. His once rigid worldview and values have softened and morphed into something more recognizably suitable for domesticity.
  3. Sherlock Holmes is in love with him.



**2020**

It was the smallest of gestures that alerted John to the changing of the tides.

John threw his keys into the small bowl they’d elected to keep by the door when Sherlock called, without looking up from his book, that there was something on the kitchen counter for him.

With curious hands, he peeled open a small, brown bag to see a single blueberry muffin within it. He stared at it for a long moment, trying to sort out exactly what it meant.

“Who’s this from?” John called without turning around.

“From me, of course,” said Sherlock in a rather bored voice.

“Right. And- er- why?”

Sherlock looked up from his book then, his face twisted with a confusion that matched John’s own. “This morning. You said you wanted one.”

John needed to wrack every corner of his mind for a hint of what, precisely, was happening. He looked down at the muffin and then back up to the detective, casually adorned with a maroon robe and matching slippers.

“When did I say I wanted a muffin?” John asked, more than a little bewildered.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “This morning, John. I was watching a show, the character was eating a muffin, and you said it looked good. Then you left for work.”

John gaped at the man. It was a phantom memory, himself looking at the telly and commenting that whatever the character was eating looked good. It was a result of John’s hunger for even fleeting conversation with Sherlock, not any sort of hunger that food could cure.

Yet Sherlock had listened. He hadn’t disregarded the sentiment or just ignored it. He’d truly listened. He’d gotten dressed, gone out, and purchased a muffin because John had mentioned in passing that it looked good on the telly.

The smallest of gestures to reveal the deepest of changes.

Once John started noticing, he couldn’t stop noticing. Sherlock would pack Rosie’s lunch when John was running late. Sherlock commented that John’s new shirt looked nice on him. Sherlock went shopping when John noted they that were low on food. Sherlock apologized when John roared that he was being an arse.

All of this, when compared to the man John had once agreed to live with ten years earlier, seemed to point toward one conclusion.

The fire was cracking to his left as the pair of them sat in their comfortable silence, Rosie sleeping above them with her peaceful dreams.

“Sherlock?” His heart was pounding, as though something more than blood was pumping through his veins.

“Yes?”

A beat. The last beat on this planet without the words being spoken aloud. “I love you.”

Sherlock stared at him, his face unreadable as the words sunk in. John forced his eyes to remain glued to Sherlock's.

“I've always been afraid of this,” whispered Sherlock. John's stomach dropped clear out of his body, every hope he had even clung to leaving him with six small words.

“Right.” John dropped his eyes and braced the arms of his chair to escape this room, this man, this situation.

“No!” shouted Sherlock abruptly. John froze, barely out of his chair and his heart remaining stubbornly optimistic. “You misunderstand. I've always been afraid of the truth. Which is that I, of course, love you as well.”

They smiled at one another, their love filling the room, brimming over with its excess and spilling out into the world.

As it turned out, Sherlocks fears and John's hopes were always inherently entwined in each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's prompt: Feast


	22. Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "David said he would stab me if I didn’t shut up, I told him he wouldn’t have the guts, and he proved me wrong.”
> 
> It was like how John described to Harry how he’d wanted to go to the store yesterday but had run out of time to do it. Casual. Nonchalant. A simple fact. Nevermind that he didn’t know who “David” was and this supposed “David” just stabbed a man.
> 
> He fixed the man with disbelieving eyes and then went to work on cleaning the wound. “You mean to tell me that you challenged somebody to stab you and they actually did it?” He was quickly realizing he wouldn't be able to properly fix this wound with the shirt fabric in the way.
> 
> He shrugged. “What can I say? I really didn’t think he’d do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You, half-way through this fic: "okay but what does any of this have to do with a feast?"  
> Me: wait for it...
> 
> Context: this is an AU ficlet. John is 25, Sherlock is 22, they haven't met yet. Is 2.6K words still a ficlet?

God, John would rather be anywhere in the world than this damned room. Beige walls were illuminated with dreary fluorescents, the isolated silence vibrating with the raucous crowd around him. The contrast of the excited energy outside and lifeless despair inside was startling.

These shifts at the arena were usually boring. As the doctor on duty in the event of an injury or illness on the premises, he saw shockingly little action. It was only a few days a month that he accepted this job. It was merely a position he’d take when he needed the extra money. Well, this week he needed the money.

His fingers drummed along his “desk” (really just a foldable, plastic picnic table with various office supplies), realising with horror that the show hadn’t even started. Who was it that was playing tonight? Midnight… something? It was some boy band John had no interest in. It didn’t matter who was playing, really. He couldn’t hear the music from here and he wasn’t allowed to see any of the performers. Still, it was cool when Elton John had been the performer.

His winding train of thought was interrupted by the gentlest of upheavals when a soft rapping sounded at the door. He jumped at the sound, then furrowed his eyebrows tightly. Who on Earth _knocked_ at the nursing's office?

John called for the visitor to “come in” with his inflexion bending up at the end to turn his instruction into a question.

The doorknob turned hesitantly, a head slowly poking around the door frame and John was instantly sitting up straighter. The young man’s eyes scanned the room only for the briefest of moments before finding John. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

He was all darkness and angles, his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks shadowed with defined features and impossible cheekbones. Dark curls cascaded over his forehead, hanging long close to his shoulders but infinitely stylish. He was an ancient sort of beauty, though he was surely John’s age-perhaps a bit younger. He was almost difficult to understand, surreal with perfection.

Yes, John was definitely sitting up straighter- and smiling. Smiling from ear to ear. Smiling in an unnatural manner and God, he needed to reel in the smiling. He forced his cheeks to relax, the very short seconds of silence felt like years and years and why wasn’t he saying _anything_?!

“Hey, you’re the doctor?” he asked, eyes narrow as though he didn’t think John was the doctor.

And he was right. “Technically, no,” he admitted. “I’m just a med student. But this isn’t technically a clinic or any formal treatment centre so they let us future doctors take a crack at it.”

Why was he rambling? Did this total stranger need a rundown of his life? He clasped his mouth shut, eager to prevent the rest of the words trying to flow out of his unwilling lips.

The man sized him up, scanning him from hair to shoes with sceptical eyes that felt an awful lot like standing naked in a crowded room.

“You’ll do,” he declared after some time, finally swinging the door open fully to reveal the reason for his visit. Across the length of his right tricep was a slash of scarlet, the wound clearly cleaned up haphazardly before he’d run down here.

“God,” he shouted in surprise. Normally, his shifts here never saw more than the occasional scratch from over-ambitious concert-goers wearing too-big jewellery. Once, he treated a sprain- but that was nothing more than applying a buddy tape with gauze to their middle and ring fingers. But no blood.

“Not quite,” said the man with a casual sort of confidence. He walked over to the makeshift patient bed and sat with his arm extended to grip his knee.

John rose shakily from his chair and crossed the room while asking, “What happened here?”

“Stupid,” he muttered in response. Then, more clearly, “David said he would stab me if I didn’t shut up, I told him he wouldn’t have the guts, and he proved me wrong.”

It was like how John described to Harry how he’d wanted to go to the store yesterday but had run out of time to do it. Casual. Nonchalant. A simple fact. Nevermind that he didn’t know who “David” was and this supposed “David” just _stabbed_ a man.

He fixed the man with disbelieving eyes and then went to work on cleaning the wound. “You mean to tell me that you _challenged_ somebody to stab you and they actually did it?” He was quickly realizing he wouldn't be able to properly fix this wound with the shirt fabric in the way.

He shrugged. “What can I say? I really didn’t think he’d do it.”

“Hey, can I cut your sleeve off?” he asked, looking anywhere but his eyes. They were the deepest oceans and John was ready to be crushed under their pressure.

“Of course not,” he scoffed, purely insulted at the insinuation. “This is _Armani_.”

As if the brilliant purple fabric wasn’t completely torn apart from his _stab_ wound.

“Right, well I can’t very well help you with your sleeve on,” John snapped, beginning to wonder if this handsome stranger was worth the smart arse attached to the beautiful face.

Without missing even the slightest of beats, he moved his hands to unfasten his shirt, wincing as his right arm pulled in to his torso to fiddle with buttons holding the shirt closed. John, the future doctor, felt the craziest urge to look away. “What’s your name, then?” the man asked while he was uncomfortably struggling with the shirt’s removal.

“Er- John. John Watson,” he said with an only the slightest of shaking in his words. _Stay calm, Watson. He’s hot, it’s no reason to let it prevent you from doing your job: to treat him_. “Yours?”

He looked slightly… taken aback? Affronted? Insulted? John couldn’t put his finger on it before it flinted off his face, replaced by his former mask of cockiness. “Sherlock,” he said smoothly. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Was it quite normal to get dizzy, hearing music in the sound of a name? He should look into that.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he repeated softly and it was such a ridiculous thing to repeat, his face flashed to expose his embarrassment. Jerking into motion quickly, he dropped his gaze and murmured “nice to meet you” before entering a long silence between the two of them, John focusing hard on attending to the bloody gash.

In the silence, he heard the growing crowd. He cleaned the wound. The was ever-growing. He was preparing for stitches. There was a sudden rise in applause and screaming he knew the crowd was onstage now. He asked Sherlock if he needed to bite down on anything, which Sherlock refused. A distant echo of music floated through the air around them, a crappy guitar line entwined with contrived drum beats. He didn’t let himself think about how hot he was shirtless. The music wasn't awful, but it certainly wasn't any good. He could tell from even the ghost of the song.

“You don't care for it?” Sherlock asked suddenly, John's hands starting as the words broke through his concentration. His head snapped up violently and saw Sherlock cringe from the motion but nothing more. His gaze was intoxicating.

“No, not particularly.”

He didn't want to insult this person who spent money to get here and dressed up nicely only to get injured and have to miss the whole thing. But the longer it went on, the more the din dug under his skin.

Sherlock smiled wide, a knowing glint in his eye. “You hate it.”

John said nothing but immediately refocused on the stitches and willed silence once more. This time, he was able to finish the job and stopped to inspect his work to ensure every precision and ensure that every step was taken to avoid scarring.

“Alright,” he said. “You need to make sure to keep this dry for one whole day. After that, you need to wash and rebandage it two times every day, okay? Take pain pills as needed but otherwise, you're good to go.”

“I don't like it either,” he said, ignoring John's attempted dismissal. “It's boring.”

Instantly drawn from his doctor mindset with sheer confusion, John asked “You don't like it? Why are you here?”

“It's complicated,” he said quickly, waving his hand as though he could physically push away John's curiosity. “So tell me, John: What sort of music _do_ you like?”

He wondered if he should lie. Mind racing, he stole a look at Sherlock, desperately trying to understand what sort of music _he_ liked. John couldn't explain it, but he wanted so desperately to impress him. Maybe he should say he liked Rap. That's what the other boys his age listened to. But then he thought of all the things he _didn't_ know about rap and he knew he'd be caught in the lie and God, how long had he been silent now? “I kinda like… classical music,” he said, cheeks flushing scarlet. The truth was embarrassing.

But Sherlock’s eyes widened with surprise, a joyous glint flickering within them. “Classical music,” he repeated and it wasn't a question. “Which sort?”

“All of it, really. I especially like songs where the strings are prominent. Cellos are great but I especially love the violin.”

Sherlock sat on the table and John wished he’d put on a shirt. It was impossible to keep his gaze away from the glorious marble skin and he hated forcing his eyes to look at the nondescript wall. With no willingness to kick Sherlock out and no medical reason left to treat him, he assumed the seat he'd been in before Sherlock had arrived.

“Funny you say that,” he said, left hand unthinkingly stroking the bandaged injury. “I play the violin.”

John was dreaming. He'd fallen asleep and he was dreaming that he'd met a beautiful stranger who was funny, smart, and played the violin. But John's fingers dug into the palm of his hand and the biting pain told him this was better than a dream. He really was here.

Perfection.

“Any good?” He asked, voice tense with forced casual

“The best.”

* * *

He spent the entirety of the concert chatting with Sherlock Holmes. The music would flare up, the crowd would cheer. More music, more cheering. Unbeknownst to the thousands of fans above, something incredible was happening on the ground level to the left of the fourth emergency exit, two doors down from the lost and found office.

Several times (five, to be exact), John considered asking Sherlock if he wouldn’t prefer to return to the concert since his treatment was finished. But he couldn’t pull the words out; they were lodged firmly in the back of his mind and unwilling to budge even one millimetre closer to revealing themselves. Instead, he did what was infinitely the more selfish choice: he stayed silent on the matter.

Never in his whole life would he have imagined that such a flawless exterior would be host to an excellent interior. Here’s just some of the thing he’d learned about him: his fondness of violin transferred to an eventual talent with guitar as well, he hated the band who was playing and didn’t mind missing the concert, he lived in London but his job kept him on the road a lot, his favourite composer was Bach, he hated the Hungarian Rhapsody, he had a small family (parents still together and one sibling- a brother who was “a piece of work”), and he’d always dreamed of having a job where he could actually use his sharp mind.

It seemed nothing John said about himself particularly surprised him. It was almost like he… knew it all? Or rather, like every word out of his mouth was a confirmation of a truth that Sherlock already suspected. John couldn’t begin to understand it but he was entranced and unbothered.

The most amazing night of John’s life was abruptly ended when the door opened aggressively, Sherlock’s sentence cut short as the two turned their heads in unison to a mousy young woman standing in the doorframe, one hand on the doorknob as her eyes darted quickly between the two of them.

“Hello Sh- Mr. Holmes,” she said, clearly uncomfortable. “You’re needed for the meet and greet upstairs.”

And suddenly all the pieces fit together. He must have won some sort of contest, or been dragged along by a friend. He wasn’t here because he paid or because he wanted to be; he was here because he was obligated to be.

Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back with annoyance. John nearly drooled watching his neck as he did so. Then, turning to look at John, he said, “I actually do need to go do that.”

“Right,” John said with a curt nod. No big deal…

Sherlock hopped off the table, put his shirt on with a wince of pain, and, to his surprise, crossed over to John’s desk. He plucked one stray pen and one dirty post-it and began to scribble something he couldn’t make out without exposing his curiosity and stepping nearer to him. Luckily, he didn’t need to wait long to satisfy his curiosity. Straightening up, Sherlock extended the paper to hand to John.

Ten beautiful digits were staring at him from the page, each one causing a different gymnastic move within his body. His heart was performing cartwheels, his stomach summersaults, his soul engaging in various leaps.

“Text me,” he said, as smooth as could be. “Perhaps we could attend the London Symphony one evening.”

“I- Absolutely. Yes. Absolutely. I would lo- like that.”

Sherlock displayed a glorious, brilliant smile and swept from the room without another word. Even the mousy woman was dazzled and John knew that it was something special to have caught the attention of that man.

“Did you just make a date with Sherlock Holmes?” she asked, wide-eyed in a whisper after Sherlock was well out of earshot.

“Er- Yeah.” He cocked his head to the side, wondering why she seemed so surprised. Did he have something in his teeth? “Do you know him?”

She let out a sharp bark of laughter that was unmistakably one of ridicule. John didn’t care for it so he snapped, “What?” with as much venom as he could muster.

Her laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun, crashing into a wall of silence. He jaw slackened and she looked taken aback. “I’m sorry, were you not joking?”

“No, of course not.”

What was she talking about?

“Do you… Do you not know who that was?”

There was a ball of anxiety suddenly present in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he decided on: “I mean I know his name was Sherlock Holmes. How do you know him?”

Her mouth crept slowly across her face, a mischievous glint in her eyes that did nothing to appease the knot in his stomach. Slowly- too slowly- she extracted some sort of pamphlet from within her jacket. No, not a pamphlet- a flyer.

She walked up to him, arm outstretched holding the paper out for him to take. John gripped it, eyes narrowing to figure exactly what he was looking at. Five young men, standing stylishly together. The third to the right and standing toward the front was- Good God, it was Sherlock. He was standing with a guitar over his shoulder. He was leather-clad, effortlessly cool.“Feast your eyes on who you’ve just made a date with: Sherlock Holmes, guitarist of Midnight Focus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be a 4-6k fic but alas, time does not permit it. Info that couldn't organically fit into the fic at this length: Sherlock couldn't play because the muscle was too injured to strum the guitar and perform. A look-alike stood on stage while the guitar track played and the look-alike pretended to play. But the look-alike couldn't be convincing during the meet and greet so Sherlock actually needed to be there for that. The woman is a PA who is also a big fan of the band. Also, David is the drummer.
> 
> I used this style because one POV in my original novel has this sarcastic, intimate narration and I needed to practice before I start rewrites in January.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	23. Nightmare Before Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Christmas Eve, he’s the only one laughing, and this daydream is churning into a nightmare. The party is over in an instant, shuffling feet walking out the door to a colder, more welcoming night with half-hearted wishes of good cheer. Sherlock Holmes is nowhere to be seen and John Watson couldn’t possibly be a bigger arse.

It’s Christmas Eve, he’s the only one laughing, and this daydream is churning into a nightmare. The party is over in an instant, shuffling feet walking out the door to a colder, more welcoming night with half-hearted wishes of good cheer. Sherlock Holmes is nowhere to be seen and John Watson couldn’t possibly be a bigger arse.

  
**32 Days Before Christmas Eve**

“We ought to have the party on Christmas Eve this year.”

It was a good sign that Sherlock didn’t immediately ridicule the idea, but Sherlock’s lips pursed.

“And why would we subject ourselves to that?”

John thought about every argument he’d compiled when formulating his case. “Christmas Eve falls on a Saturday this year. One week earlier than that will be too far away from Christmas but having during the week would ensure a low outcome-”

“Then let’s have it on a weekday.”

John laughed but shook his head. “Look, we’re having it on Christmas Eve. Okay? You don’t do a damned thing to help and you never do anything on Christmas Eve anyway so it doesn’t affect you.”

Sherlock grumbled something about what  _ did _ affect him and John rolled his eyes but kissed him on the forehead, mind whirling with ambitious plans for cocktails, intricate dinner plates, and place settings that Sherlock would do (even if he insisted he wouldn’t).

**14 days Before Christmas Eve**

It wasn’t clear to John what they were. Yet he was sort of... okay not knowing. Because at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. Sherlock and himself were exactly what they always were: together.

He was his best friend, his confidant, his living nightmare, his saviour, and his absolute second-half. Their relationship had grown, changed, and morphed over the years but the core of truth was still there. They were a team, an unbreakable unit.

“How’s the party planning coming?” Sherlock asked, handing him a cup of steaming tea and gently ruffling his hair.

“Horrid,” John responded, one limp hand rubbing his exhausted face. “I’ll be up late trying to make sure everything’s in order that needs to be ordered ahead of time.”

“Well come to bed when you’re done.” His lips grazed along his cheek lazily, his fingers dragging along his shoulder for just a second as he turned around and walked to the bedroom. “Don’t stay up late, John,” he called, back still turned. “You have an early day tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

So no, it didn’t matter what they were. He wasn’t his “boyfriend” or “lover” or any other term that couldn’t possibly capture what he meant to him. They were living together, they solved unimaginable crimes with zeal to challenge villainous activity, and then they would go home and curl up together in bed. They were partners in every sense of the word. It was a perfect life, this unparalleled intimacy.

**1 Day Before Christmas Eve**

Sherlock was acting… very strangely.

Now, normally when people say that, they mean they're being moody or distant. But Sherlock was already those things all the time so those behaviours wouldn’t be red flags.

Instead, Sherlock was being incredibly fussy: obsessively cleaning, asking how he can help plan, asking John if he has everything- “ _ Everything _ , John?”- over and over and over. He was obsessively helpful, overly concerned about things he needn’t be concerned about. He was scrubbing the floors, even moving the fridge to scape at a blood stain John didn’t know existed.

“Sherlock!” he shouted when Sherlock announced he was off to get more ice “just in case.” Sherlock looked up with scared, timid eyes that John simply couldn’t bear to see. So he crossed over to him and took his hand in both of his. “Are you feeling alright?” John asked with sincerity, scanning his eyes for any hint of what was really going on.

Sherlock nodded and bit his lip. “I just want everything to be perfect tomorrow.”

He shook his head. “It will be. But if it isn’t, it’s just a party. But it’s going to be great, Sherlock, okay?”

**Christmas Eve (Present)**

The start time of the party was listed as 7 pm and John had worried profusely about the lack of arrivals. Sherlock assured him that nobody would arrive on time in order to be “fashionably late.” But John was a military man and he couldn’t fathom ever arriving late to a party to be cool. Still, Sherlock was right (as always) and people started piling in at 7:30, then more at 8 until it was now 9:30 and the party is in full swing.

John can’t keep his eyes off of Sherlock, who is wearing an incredibly smart suit. Black over forest green brings out the brilliant contrast of his hair and eyes and those poor buttons are going to pop off under the strain of his chest. John wants to kiss him so badly. Instead, he takes a sip of his spiced mulled wine and forces his eyes back to Lestrade, whose words are slurred from alcohol. He is talking about… sleighs? A reindeer-drawn police car? He honestly isn’t sure what he’s talking about. He’d spent too long making googly eyes at Sherlock.

“That’s why it would be a good investment,” he says with gusto and takes a big drink of his cocktail as a form of punctuation.

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” John says uncertainly because he can’t be sure his response will make any sense. It’s just as well because Greg is too drunk to notice anything. His cheeks glow red, his eyes glazing over the see the room around him but he isn’t observing any of it.

John is on his way to drunk. He feels his stomach give off warmth, feels his fingers tingling with loss of sensation, his tongue feels weird in his mouth.

His eyes scan, of course, back to Sherlock, who is the life of the party with Molly and Stamford. He’s surprisingly limber, radiating energy and charm in a way that is so un-Sherlock that John is compelled to glance at the dark purple liquid in his cup to make his own deductions.

And sure enough, Sherlock is off once more to refill his cup with more spiced mulled wine and John can’t help but smile. It is clear- impossibly clear- at that moment that he loves the ridiculous man more than he knows.

Lestrade is gone now and John is drawn to be closer to Sherlock in a way he doesn’t discern until he has already walked half-way across the room. When Sherlock spots him, his face lights up with a stunning smile that makes John’s legs wobble beneath him.

“John!” he declares and several heads turn toward the volume. Sherlock is aware and his head snaps up to examine the room. His lips tighten, his mind processing visibly. Then, when John is right next to him, he relaxes and says: “Excuse me, everyone. May I have your attention?” John is frozen where he stands, still smiling but fixing him with curious eyes. What is he doing?

The room stops producing noise all at once, words falling off in the middle of their sentences as every alarmed face turns to silently stare at Sherlock, who is as content as could be.

John wonders if he should usher Sherlock away. How drunk was he? Damn it, John should have been paying attention. Sherlock is such a light-weight.

But it’s too late to take him away because he is already speaking. “As you all know, John Watson is the greatest man alive,” he says, and the wine is not evident in his voice at all. He sounds calm, confident. John blushes but gives a meek smile. “I have had the great fortune of having in my life for over ten years now. His personality’s brilliant blend of a caregiver and a cranky old coot makes him the perfect companion and I would be lost without him.

John made to thank him, but he kept going. “I would like you all to be witness to this confession: I love him more fully than I ever supposed any person could love any other person. He completes me, makes me a better man, and enriches every aspect of my life. John Watson,” he says, turning to face the flushed doctor. His hands reach into his pocket and extract the smallest of black boxes, he bends down onto one knee and-

“Will you marry me?”

Nothing feels real. Everything around him is spinning in dense, unclear circles except for Sherlock who is the sun in this dark universe. Everything in him is limp but his insides are buzzing. He is both shocked into silence and happy enough to scream.

And the world rotates for what feels like years where John just stands there, gaping at the unlikely event unfolding before him. Inside, he is screaming “YES” over and over while the darkest part of his mind is stroking his insecurities and whispering that this is all some sort of awful joke. It was a joke. If he did say “yes,” he would be ridiculed for the rest of his life.

For the briefest moment, he looks at just a few faces around the room and sees shock, concern, confusion, and not one happy expression.

So John does the only thing he can do: he laughs. He laughs a pained, uncomfortable chuckle that sounds like sandpaper against plastic. Every ounce of joy on Sherlock’s face crumbles away and is replaced by disbelieving horror.

“Nice one, Sherlock,” mutters John, chuckling weakly and he needs to look away because the expression is unbearable. “Is that the wine talking?”

And he can't stop it- the laughing. He hears it as though it's produced by someone else. Sherlock slides out of the room with staggering speed.  It’s Christmas Eve, he’s the only one laughing, and this daydream is churning into a nightmare. The party is over in an instant, shuffling feet walking out the door to a colder, more welcoming night with half-hearted wishes of good cheer. Sherlock Holmes is nowhere to be seen and John Watson couldn’t possibly be a bigger arse.

**Christmas Morning**

“Sherlock.”

Silence.

“Sherlock.”

Silence.

“ _ Sherlock _ .”

He turns away, the childish motion making John equal parts furious and amused.

Sherlock was already downstairs when John had traversed out of their bedroom. Sherlock had feigned sleep all night and John had pretended he didn’t know anything was wrong. The evening of silence had been tense and horrid and not at all the way he’d imagine spending Christmas Eve.

“Listen, can we talk?” John asks, sighing as he takes several steps nearer. Sherlock doesn’t answer so John continues anyway. “I don’t understand what happened. I thought- I thought you were joking. I’m still not sure you weren’t joking, to be honest.”

Sherlock huffs air out of his nose angrily and John takes it as a good sign.

“But I’m sorry. That must have been… embarrassing for you. I didn’t mean to. I think- I panicked.”

The apology earns him eye contact. Finally: recognition of his presence. Hesitantly, more slowly than he could have imagined he could move, John pulls the black box from his own pocket and presses it firmly into Sherlock’s unsuspecting hands.

“Ask me again,” John whispers beneath hooded lids. “Ask me one more time, Sherlock. I promise I’ll answer differently.”

Silently, with an expression teetering between sceptical and hopeful, he slides to the ground and says, so softly it’s barely audible: “John Watson. My love, my life, my everything: Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

**Christmas Eve: One Later**

“Do you, Sherlock Holmes, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?”

“I do.”

“And do you, John Watson, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?”

“I do.”

It turns out that John  _ does _ care what they call themselves. Because now he can call Sherlock his “husband” and it is brilliant in its simplicity. All those things he’d insisted they were- partners, a team, best friends- were held innate in the word.

Sherlock Holmes: his husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon (on my own fic... is that a thing?): John was talking in his sleep and proposed to Sherlock. Inspired, Sherlock went out and bought a ring, confident beyond a doubt that John would say yes when he proposed. It was, after all, John who did it first. But alas, John didn't remember the dream and Sherlock was too embarrassed to explain what happened until several months later.
> 
> As always, find me on Tumblr:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com  
> OR on Dreamwidth:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.dreamwidth.org
> 
> Thank you for reading! One more to go.  
> Tomorrow's prompt: Peace


	24. Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's nude portrait day in John's art class and he cannot _believe_ how hot the model is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are: the end of the line. The final chapter. I am dedicating this to SosoHolmesWatson for being there to cheer me on EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER! Those emails with your comments were the highlights of my days.  
> (They just published their own fic and it is AMAZING AMAZING AMAZING! [ Click here to read it. Now!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17092448))
> 
> The end notes will be quite long but I will kindly ask you to read them if you have time.
> 
> Enjoy this AU!first meeting ficlet since my readers seem to enjoy them.It's a long one to go out with a bang.

Bullets of perspiration slid without caution down his forehead as he flew down the corridor, his bookbag flinging wildly around him. He couldn’t be late, he had to just make it-

_Bb-ring_

He swore vehemently under his breath, faltering somewhat as the bell sounded because he was _so_ close. It wasn’t that John couldn’t be late, it was that tardiness was deeply against his nature. It was a point of pride with him. “I’ve never even been late to class,” he used to brag.

Not anymore.

He’d been at uni for three years now with no problems. But it’d been years since they’d seen this sort of rainfall and John’s normal route to his art classroom was completely useless. Unable to traverse it, he’d sought an alternate route that only succeeded in making him late to his class.

Hand on the doorknob and panting with the effort of his wanderings, he swung open the door to see a half-dozen heads turn to watch his entrance. Among them was Professor Hudson who rose an eyebrow but silently gestured him inside, continuing her sentence.

“- to practice the elements you learned in last week’s lecture. Pay special attention to shadows, as next week’s lighting will change so you may compare.”

John ran hastily moved to his seat and cared more about sinking into his desk than he did about whatever instructions she was providing. With a grateful sigh, he relaxed against the plastic and rapidly dug out his art supplies.

By the time he was ready and focused, Professor Hudson was walking away and a new figure was walking before them.

John was only just now realizing what a wreck he must look. Soaked to the skin from the flood occurring outside, his hair was a heap of tangles, he made a speedy and ineffective effort to be a more presentable version of himself. These thoughts occurred to him because the man walking across the front of the classroom was quite striking. Enough so to encourage self-conscious thoughts. Black hair that tumbled in curls across his temples and impossible cheekbones lent him an air of elegance. Pale skin that glinted in the light and slender limbs were timelessly handsome and he could have belonged to any age at all.

He was wearing a robe of plush green material and John’s astonishment turned into a state of confusion. Who was he? What was he doing here? Today wasn’t- was it? But long fingers worked at the string of the robe and John realised that today _was_ nude portrait day as the robe hit the floor.

All around him, classmates picked up their pencils and set up their drawing station. They moved as he assumed his position and everybody in the class was in motion except for himself.

He was magnificent. John was reminded forcibly just how bisexual he was. The form of the man was stunning and he wanted to stare for ages and ages and ages but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew his stillness and inaction in retrieving his art supplies made it seem as though he were uncomfortable. He wasn’t, but he hated that people might think it so he put every effort into acting normal, retrieving his pad and paper.

A rush of duty for his class mixed with constant admiration every time he needed to look up. After drawing his basic outline of the body, he started drawing his face because strangely, that was what he wanted to remember most. There was something about him that he couldn’t understand, an air of mystery that John wanted to solve.

He was just about to start shaping his eyes when he glanced toward the model again and saw piercingly bright eyes already staring right back at him with a scrutinizing intensity. Nearly jumping, he looked immediately back to his paper and pretended to continue but could not bring himself to focus on what he was supposed to be doing. The ghost of that stare left him with goosebumps all over his body.

Minutes and minutes later, when John gathered his courage enough to look back up at his model, his eyes were back to their previous focus point and John releases a tension he hadn’t known he was holding. He didn’t know why the man had turned to stare at him in such a manner, but he knew the simple contact had been the most exciting thing to happen to him all day- even all year.

* * *

_He’s here. He has to be here._

Sherlock walked unawares through puddles of muddy water. The police wouldn’t listen to him but he _knew_ that the murderer had to be here.

A young man with a brand of acrylic paint that could only be purchased in bulk, a beginner’s sketchbook, and a notebook of notes on subjects taken by the average third-year undergrads. Comparing the time of the crime with the availability of materials lead to only one conclusion: the murderer took this specific art class.

So he had called up Professor Hudson and asked to volunteer for their nude portrait day.

“Oh dear,” she fussed. “I can’t bear to see you like that!”

But Sherlock had been her favourite student when she taught the high school classes and he used the word he swore he’d never say (“please”) so she allowed it.

When he reached the building, he changed out of his button-up shirt and black slacks into a warm robe. He wasn’t the slightest bit worried to be naked in front of strangers; the human body was not something to be goggled at or embarrassed by. He had a job to do. He was a bit worried about how he was going to analyze the classroom when he needed to keep his eyes in one place.

So he stepped out to the classroom, briefly scanned the faces staring at him, and removed his robe. In one corner of his eye, he saw a still figure among scuttering bodies. They sat transfixed and Sherlock’s neck was prickling with anticipation. Perhaps this lack of motion was a guilty admission. Perhaps this man, just older than himself, recognized Sherlock. Perhaps he knew that, even naked and still, Sherlock could break him- make _him_ the exhibited one.

But then the figure clumsily extracted art materials and Sherlock thought that maybe he was just insecure with the sight of a naked man. His murderer didn’t necessarily have to be the dishevelled one.

He planned it carefully. Knowing he would have only one opportunity to properly do it, he waited like an alligator in the water: waiting, waiting, waiting so patiently until the time was right. He had one opportunity, anything more would be obvious to the whole room, betray him and reveal that he wasn’t simply a model.

 _Now_.

Spinning his head abruptly to the man, he threw his mind into overdrive to make deductions. 21 years old (third year at uni), poor time management skills (clearly he had been late to class), very confident in himself, taking this class as an elective, and-

His breath hitched in his throat. It was with a jolt that his deductions were thrown off because suddenly, the man was looking at him. Not just toward him, but directly into his eyes with an intense curiosity. He was locked in place, his mind reeling from an invisible hold that he seemed to have over Sherlock. It was the strangest thing he’d ever experienced: this abrupt, wild, intense surge of kinship.

But the stranger apparently felt no such kinship because he looked away with a flash of red across his cheeks and motionlessly stood in front of his picture.

Though he hadn’t deduced “killer,” he’d certainly deduced that this man was hiding something. He was afraid that Sherlock would expose him. It was with a pang that he knew he’d caught his killer.

But still. There was something about him.

So he tore his eyes off of the handsome, sturdy man and intently returned his gaze to the pinpoint he’d chosen to stare at during the hour. Just fourteen minutes left. Just fourteen minutes until he could confront the murderer.

* * *

John was pleasantly surprised how quickly the time had passed. A surreal feeling of peace washed over him in gently cresting waves as scratching pencils sounded against the otherwise silent room. Every person in there was quiet, focused, and lost in their own worlds. The comprehensive retraction into his own mind was what made the alarm for their portraits so terrifying. The silent, peaceful concentration was ripped apart violently by the aggressive beeping that signified the end of the class. It is only then, as the class moved to put their supplies away and the model replaced his robe, that John felt the too-familiar return of blood in his cheeks. He knew it was ridiculous to suspect, but he had the strangest feeling that the model _knew_ that John liked what he saw. He felt ashamed of his open staring and desperately wanted to avoid contact with him.

With expedition, John sloppily packed everything away and refused to meet the gaze of the model who, strangely, was trying to catch his eye. Turning toward the door, John strode out and took a deep breath, more than pleased to be free.

The deep breath was knocked out of him in an instant, his whole body crumbling to the floor as something ran into him at full speed. “What the-” he shouted before hitting the floor with a painful thump. Face on the floor, he strained his neck to see who the hell had just tackled him.

“Where were you the night of the 21st?!” shouts a voice and John can only barely see a blur of black curls above him and he can’t even begin to understand what was happening. Was that- was the model from class on top of him?!

“What the hell?” he shouts, and they were sincerely the only three words in the English language he could speak.

“You left behind traces of acrylic paint on the gun you used to kill them. Your belongings were torn apart in the struggle, including portions of your notebooks and even your bag. So why did you do it?”

He was still shouting and John’s mind was beside itself trying to explain what was happening. “What- What did you- _What_?!”

“Don’t pretend you’re innocent. I know it was you.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re evening _talking_ about!”

“Oh sure,” he drawls with a voice dripping in sarcasm. His knee started digging into John’s back and spots appeared everywhere around him. “You were acting that way because you _didn’t_ kill the Chamons.”

“KILL- What?! I haven’t killed anybody!”

“I’m supposed to believe you after the way you were acting in there? Avoiding eye contact, flushing with colour when I looked at you- the gig is up. I read guilt in every movement you made.”

John was sputtering with indignation. Without a thought in his head, he shouted, “I wasn’t doing those things because I _killed_ somebody. God, you’re just really hot!”

Although he couldn’t see him, John felt him go rigid on top of him. After ages of difficult breathing and fighting to get out from beneath him, he finally heard a soft “Oh” from above him.

“Can I go now?” John spat, furious at the degrading nature of his position.

“No,” he responded as cool as could be, but he did get off of John. Scrambling as fast as he could, he rose to his feet without an ounce of elegance. He turned a furious face toward his attacker, jutting one pointed finger toward him. But before he could get a word out, the man swiftly extended his hand. “The name’s Sherlock. I’m a detective.”

Detective? How could that be possible? He looked much too young. John stared at the hand, certain his bewilderment must be painted all over his face. “John,” he said with the inflexion of a question. Now, facing him again, John’s anger lost its sharpness. It held less bite, softened by the stunningly elegant air of this madman who he couldn’t even begin to understand. He took his hand and felt a shock of excitement run up the length of his arm.

“Coffee?” Sherlock proposed with a nonchalant note of calm in his voice.

“Cof- No!” John shouted incredulously, though he wanted nothing more than to accept the offer. “I have class.”

He was shrouded in mystery, this Sherlock. He was unpredictable and gorgeous and absolutely insane and John wanted to know everything about him from his family to his favourite food to deepest workings of his mind. John could not recall ever being so intrigued in his life. It was like a magnetic pull that John couldn’t struggle against.

“Then we will make it quick and you’ll still make your class. You’ll just be a bit late.” Sherlock folded his hands behind his back, chin jutted out in a cocky manner. He was confident that John would ditch his responsibilities for him.

John was never late. But those deep sea eyes were locked with his and John thought with abandon, “ _Well, I’ve already been late once_.”

“Fine. But no tackling me this time.”

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock "attack now and ask questions later" Holmes: tackles John  
> John "adrenaline junkie" Watson: has a boner
> 
> Wow. This was a very exhausting but rewarding challenge. I am going to take a (much needed) break from writing for at least a week and then I will be setting off on my biggest fic yet titled Welcome Home. I can't wait to spend more than an hour on a fic! I miss planning and subtext and metaphors and intricate details. I'll get to that in a moment.
> 
> If you've been reading along but haven't dropped a comment yet, I'd love for you to do so now! I have no idea who has been reading along all this time except for a handful of you. Thank you to EVERYONE who has read and made this journey worth it.
> 
> Welcome Home will be a Bandstand!AU (Bandstand is a musical) wherein Captain John Watson returns home from WWII with more than his fair share of trauma. A musical soul, he tries to reincorporate himself back into society by performing but finds that everyone is more concerned with saying they are proud of soldiers than actually trying to help them. He struggles to find work in the city but he soon finds out about a life-changing opportunity. All he needs is a band and a singer. The band gives him a reason to live but he copes with survivor's guilt as he grows closer to his late-best friend's significant other: Sherlock Holmes.  
> There will be psychological exploration, slow-burn Johnlock, mystery, fluff, angst, post-WWII social commentary, and much much more. I'm still in the research phase but will start writing soon. If you are interested in reading, please consider subscribing to my page. OR you can like or reblog [THIS Tumblr post](https://itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com/post/180632203400/i-am-excited-to-announce-that-i-have-started) and I will tag you when the first chapter is available.  
> BUT WAIT! There's more! I am a semi-professional singer and will be recording the songs that Sherlock will be singing in the fic. Just for fun, really. The recordings won't be amazing quality but it will supplement the fic.
> 
> That's all, folks! Thank you for reading.  
> One last time: Find me on Tumblr:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com  
> OR on Dreamwidth:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.dreamwidth.org
> 
> Merry Christmas to all (who celebrate it) and to all a good night!


End file.
